Good Dirt 8/1/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 13:1-9

Contrary to my father who, when he wanted to be difficult, would try to convince me that there really was only one correct way of doing anything, it did not take long for me to discover that there are a great many different ways of doing things, and a great many different ways of saying things. And it is often when people choose unorthodox means of doing and saying things, that we are left with some of the best stories.  

Recall the Roman Catholic nun who ran out of gas on a remote rural road in Northern Ireland. She walked half a mile to a filling station where, sure enough, there was gas to be had for a price. And while she had the price of the gas, what she lacked was a means of getting it from the pump to her car. ...a problem that was not as easily correctable as you might think. Because of the ongoing hostilities in Northern Ireland, there was a local ordinance against pumping gas into any hand-held container. And the station attendant was unwilling to make an exception, even for a container to be carried by a nun. But the nun was persistent, leading the attendant to pursue some kind of solution. At last he hit upon an answer. He found an empty six pack of beer bottles and filled them with gas, figuring that no one would be suspicious of such unlikely containers in the possession of such an unlikely lady. So back to her car walked the nun, whereupon she began to empty one beer bottle after another into her gas tank. In the midst of all this activity, a leader of the Protestant Extremists happened to drive by. He slowed down, stopped, and then in utter amazement rolled down his window Just long enough to shout: “Sister, we may have our political differences, but I’ve sure got to admire your faith.”

Like I said, in a world in which there are commonly-accepted ways of doing and saying commonly-accepted things, we find ourselves remembering the unorthodox. Which brings us to the tendency of Jesus to teach in parables. Parables are (by definition) simple stories affording deeper looks at basic truths, presented in ways which are disarmingly unorthodox so as to make them dramatically compelling. Most of them grab us because they start where we start....in the day-to-day experiences of ordinary life. A woman is baking bread. A man tears a garment. A valuable coin is lost. Some people are going over the seating chart for a banquet. All of us can identify with truths that grow out of experiences which are so incredibly daily. In fact, part of a parable’s power rests in the reader being able to say: “Hey, I’ve been there.”

Moreover, parables go with a light touch. They never overpower anybody. As contrasted with an argument (which seeks, by definition, to win), a parable makes its point without appearing to put anybody down. And parables are more interesting than arguments, which explains why dull preachers tend to employ them as a means of delivering their sermons from boredom and their congregations from sleep.

So given the fact that summer is a very out-doorsy season and that Jesus was a very out-doorsy man, perhaps an out-doorsy parable is in order. But before getting into the meat of it (or, should I say, the “kernel of it), a little stage setting might well be in order.

By the time we get to Matthew’s 13th chapter, things are beginning to take a turn for the worse in the life of Jesus. He has begun to surface some serious opposition, especially among the religious authorities. And as my old college chaplain, Bill Coffin, is quick to remind us: “Hell hath no fury like that of a bureaucracy scorned.” Still, we read that “the common people heard him gladly,” which may explain why he always seems to turn up in private living rooms or on public beaches. In this particular instance, he has just left somebody’s living room to go sit by the lake. But so many people have gathered around him that he gets into a boat, from which he tells this story.

“A sower went out to sow some seed,” he begins. And it is entirely possible that both he and the crowd can look off into the distance and see some farmer doing exactly that. But Jesus has already lost me. I know next to nothing about seeds. I am a city boy. When I was growing up, if a piece of ground didn’t have a curb in front of it and an alley behind it, I couldn’t relate to it. Oh, I’ve cut a little grass, watered a few flowers, and snipped an occasional bean. But you couldn’t fill a 3x5 card with what I know about farming. And in spite of being the son-in-law of a horticulturist, I can’t spell “euonymus,” or identify “coreopsis.”

But people who know such stuff tell me that Jesus is describing a methodology of planting known as the “broadcasting of seed.” Apparently, you put a whole lot of seed in your apron, and (while using one hand to keep a pocket formed in the apron) you use the other hand to scatter seed anywhere and everywhere as you walk along. Which is something I could get into. The few times I’ve planted seeds, I remember spending all my time on my hands and knees trying to figure out how deep I should submerse them, how far I should separate them, while trying to follow the little white string that keeps the row straight. Therefore, the idea of throwing seeds hither and yon kind of appeals to me.

Except that this parable is not primarily about seeds and how they are thrown, but about the soil that they are thrown into. Which puts me at a greater disadvantage, given that I know even less about soil than I do about seeds. The only thing I know about soil is that, until I got to Birmingham, I never lived anywhere where it was any good. After 11 years of watering sand in Livonia and 13 years of breaking my back in the clay of Farmington Hills, the Bishop took pity on me. One day he called me up and said: “Ritter, you’ve been a good boy. You’ve paid your dues. Now go to Birmingham and play in the dirt.” The move has been a salvation experience for the spasm-prone muscles of my lower back. For previously, whenever my wife wanted to torment me, she would suggest that we (that’s an editorial “we”) move some shrubbery. Some husbands get to rearrange furniture in the family room. I consider them the lucky ones. I get to move trees. But having been liberated from a backyard where I once busted a spade in half while moving a bush from one place to another, I am ready (if not entirely knowledgeable) to hear what Jesus says about soils.

“A sower went out to sow some seed. And some of it fell along the path, where the birds came and devoured it.” Which means that the first kind of soil is “hard.” You might call it stubborn soil. So much has gone over it that nothing can get into it. Nothing sinks in. I have seen that kind of soil. And I have met those kinds of people. Nothing sinks into them. They are tough. They are resistant. They are hard-nosed. They play hardball. They are hard nuts to crack. They are hard to reach. And, when reached, they play hard to get. They take pride in their rigidity. There is even a major denomination in this country whose more fanatical members identify themselves with the adjective “hard-shell.” What a terrible word to describe the Christian life....”hard-shell.”  Oh, I know it’s just a phrase that is meant to describe the zeal of their devotion and the untainted purity of their conviction. But that same shell which (they believe) keeps temptation, doubt and heresy out, also keeps them from being penetrated by things like truth, pain, and human need.

You can admire the hard-shell people of the world, but I am willing to bet that you don’t like them. That’s because (as unreceptive soil) they have long since defined their lives in ways that are pleasing to them, and have long since passed the point where renegotiating that definition is something they are willing to do. So they announce to us: “That’s just the way I am. I have no interest in changing. What you see is what you get.” I suppose we should thank them for warning us.  But once warned by them, why do I always have the feeling that I want to get away from them?

Still, there is one additional word to share with any hard-shell folk who may happen to be among us. “You’re for the birds.” Don’t get mad at me. Get mad at Jesus. For didn’t he say that if seed be cast upon you, yet can’t work its way inside you, it may lead to your getting pecked to death by the birds who come to eat the seed off of your hard-shell head....or off of your hard-shell heart?

But let’s move along. “Other seeds fell on patches of rock where they found little soil, causing them to spring up almost immediately because there was no depth of earth.” Which is relatively easy to understand, once you begin with the fact that much of Israel is a rock pile. It is common, therefore, to find thin layers of soil barely covering large ledges of lime rock So that when Jesus speaks of casting seeds on rocky ground, he is not necessarily talking about soil that is full of individual rocks, but about a thin coating of soil resting atop a rock ledge. The rock, you see, will absorb and retain the suns rays (baking the soil from below), even as the sun is beating down upon the soil (baking it from above). As a result, seeds falling into this thin layer of warmed soil will sprout quickly. But upon sending down roots in search of moisture, will strike rock and starve.

We are talking now, not about soil that is hard, but about soil that is “shallow.” I have seen that kind of soil, too. And I have met those kinds of people. There is a character in a Peter deVries novel who speaks for quite a few of us when he says: “Down deep, I’m shallow.” Some of us are shallow because we never stay long enough in any one place, with any one person, doing any one thing, to grow the kind of roots which will be sufficient to feed us when life becomes parched and dry. Others of us are shallow because we never drink in enough learning or corral enough up-to-date information, so as to help us form a set of convictions worth having the courage of. But even education alone can’t save us from shallowness, given the number of scholars I have known who have chosen to be alive, only from the neck up.

Religion can be shallow, as when it promises everything to us, while asking nothing of us.... or when it coaxes tears from our eyes without ever inducing movement in our feet....or when it allows us to substitute a ten dollar bill in the plate for the kind of discipleship that Jesus urged upon his followers. Steven Birmingham (a novelist with an interestingly-appropriate name) writes of a wealthy matron who is proudly showing the rooms of her elegant home to an impressionable visitor. Later, while serving tea in the garden, the matron says: “Perhaps you would like to see the pool. It’s just beyond the hedge.” Which it is.  But the visitor is shocked by the pool’s highly unusual shape, which is a scant 28 feet wide by 200 yards (600 feet) long. In response to the obvious question, the matron explains: “The reason I had them build the pool long and narrow is because while I truly like to swim, I’ve never been able to build much enthusiasm for turning around.” That should strike a nerve with us, given that most of us would like a faith that keeps us swimming, but few of us want a faith which requires that we do much turning around.

Finally, following hard soil and shallow soil, comes what most farmers like to call “dirty soil.” This is soil that is rich but cluttered. Concerning it, Jesus said: “Other seeds fell among the thorns, and the thorns grew up and choked them.”

Now I may not be much of a gardener, but I know that it’s hard to grow anything of value without some attention being paid to cultivation... which customarily includes things like weeding, thinning, pruning, and cutting away. All of which leads to a personal question. What is currently choking your growth? What is thwarting your harvest? What is dirtying your soil? Could it be a destructive habit you can’t break, or a destructive feeling you can’t purge? Maybe its a hurt you can’t forgive, or a grudge you won’t surrender. Maybe it is the icy crystal covering of self- hatred that you will not allow the love of another to melt. Or maybe it is a bridge over troubled waters, lowered by your enemy, onto which you refuse to take the first step. Or perhaps it is the lingering presence of a favorite sin that you have chosen to tame rather than maim. Or maybe your soil is being dirtied by the terrible ways you use clock, calendar and date book, so as to leave no time for better seeds to grow.

Hard soil! Shallow soil! Dirty Soil! All three have one thing in common. They yield no harvest Good soil alone does that. And we are called to be good soil. True, we cannot guarantee the harvest We cannot even will the seed to appear. But we can go to work on the dirt.

Which is my task, every bit as much as it is yours. For it falls to me as your leader to mind (not only my own dirt) but yours as well. This is something I take with utmost seriousness.

When I gathered the program staff for a two-day retreat at my place up north (just one short week into my tenure here), I began our time together with this question from Eugene Peterson:

Why, pray tell, do new pastors often treat the congregations to which they have been freshly appointed with the impatience and violence of a developer building a shopping mall, instead of the patient devotion of a farmer cultivating a field?

Then, having raised the question, Peterson goes on to admonish and advise:

The congregation is not the enemy. Pastoral work is not adversarial. These people in the pews are not aliens to be conquered and then rehabilitated to the satisfaction of the pastoral ego. Neither is the congregation stupid and lumpish, just waiting for pastoral enlightenment. No! The congregation is topsoil, seething with energy and organisms that have incredible capacities for assimilating death and participating in resurrection, before which the only proper pastoral stance is awe.

Listen to that last sentence again: ‘The congregation is topsoil.... before which the only proper pastoral stance is awe.” When I finished reading that, I expected the staff to be most impressed. Bertha, in turn, announced that she was going to go home and tell you that I said you were dirt. So I beat her to it. But I also said it. For you are.... dirt, that is. And if you have followed this little story carefully, you know that “dirt” is precisely what you ought to be.

For from dust we came. And to dust we shall return. But in between the dust that was...and the dust that is to be.... let us (in this present hour) make of ourselves the best dirt possible. And as for the rest, what choice do we have but to

Entering the Zone 8/8/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

You may have noticed that the sermon titles have begun to appear in the newspaper, and are included in the ad we place in the Thursday edition of the Eccentric. And you may have also noticed that, from time to time, the titles (themselves) are more than a little bit eccentric. But, believe it or not, I have had people wander into the sanctuary, drawn by a title, wondering what in the world I am going to say about some off-the-wall subject. Perhaps there is just such a person here today, wondering where the "zone" is.

Some of you may have wondered. And some may think you know. I have heard any number of guesses. The idea most often mentioned is "the twilight zone." Those people figure that I am going to talk about things that are ethereal and fourth dimensional. Running a close second is "the Fretter Zone." Those people figure that I am going to talk about VCRs, microwaves, and give away five pounds of coffee if I can't beat somebody else's best deal. I have had suggestions of "the combat zone" and "the demilitarized zone," generally from hawks and doves respectively. The more athletically inclined have mentioned "the end zone," "the strike zone," and the "2/3 match up zone." One lone environmentalist has come at things from left field and speculated that I was going to talk about "the ozone." And those were just a few of the suggestions. Not every suggestion was printable.... or preachable.  And none was correct.

Actually, the people who came at things athletically were pretty much on track. All you have to do is go back to the local sports pages about three weeks ago. The place was Grand Rapids. The event was one of those Senior's golf tournaments, put together so that people who are as old as me can still win lots of loot. The golfer was Butch Baird, who (on the first day of the tournament) shot a 63. Now Butch has never been mistaken for Arnie, Jack or even Chi Chi Rodriguez. And Butch did not go on to win the tournament. But for one day, nobody played better. So it was fitting that he should command all the media attention. For thirty minutes every reporter asked a variation on the same question: "Hey Butch, how'd you do it'?" And after fumbling for a variety of ways to explain the unexplainable (because if he really knew how he "did it," he'd go out and do it tomorrow), he finally put the questions to rest by saying: "It was unreal out there today. It was like I was in a zone where everything was easy.... everything was pure.... and where I couldn't do anything wrong."

And the fascinating thing is that Butch didn't make that up. For one of the newer terms in sport's jargon is “the zone." And what is "the zone?" It is that semi-mystical place...or moment...where there is almost perfect harmony between mind, body and the environment. The "zone" is where nothing is impossible.... where everything goes right.... and where the athlete enjoys a feeling of complete confidence and mastery.

Since this concept is athletically foreign to me, I can't tell you what it is like to enter "the zone" personally. But others can. One of the best descriptions of this phenomenon was offered by Pele, the now-retired Brazilian soccer immortal.  Pele said that in a match one day he felt a strange and eerie calm. He described it as a kind of euphoria. He said he felt as if he could run all day without tiring and that he could dribble right through the defenders, every last one of them. It was almost as if he could pass through them physically.  He felt that he could not be hurt or injured.  It was a feeling of near-total invincibility.

 

In that same essay, shared with me by my San Diego colleague, Mark Trotter, there was a similar testimony from John Brodie. Some of you know John Brodie as a TV commentator. Others of you know him as a near-scratch golfer. But if you go back a ways, you will remember that John Brodie once quarterbacked the San Francisco 49'ers. Listen to his remembrance from that era: “There were occasional moments in games when time seemed to slow down in an almost uncanny way. It was as if everyone were running in slow motion. It would seem like I had all the time in the world to watch the receivers run their patterns, yet knowing that the defensive line was coming at me just as fast as ever."

It would seem that similar feelings can be experienced in virtually every sport. Just two weeks ago (in response to a question about whether John Olerud could conceivably hit .400), our own Cecil Fielder talked about "the zone." He said that there are days when he can't help but hit.... when the ball comes to the plate in slow motion.... when he can see the seams, count the threads, and hear it crying 'kill me."

Then there was this amazing testimony by an inter-collegiate gymnast named Carol Johnson. She was talking about performing on a balance beam. That's the little thin board from which one does flips and cartwheels. Now I don't know about you, but it's been 35 years since I last did a flip or a cartwheel from the ground, let alone a beam. And I probably wasn't very graceful, even then. But Carol Johnson says: " There are days, in competition, when the beam seems to grow so wide, that any fear of falling completely disappears."

That's far out stuff. But that's what is known as "entering the zone." There comes a time when everything comes together and falls into place exactly as it should. Fear passes. Anxiety recedes. You know that you are going to be able to do whatever it is that you need to do. And you know that nothing is going to be able to stop you.

Think back to that amazing year when the Michigan Wolverines (in the first 6 games of Steve Fisher's coaching career...after that infamous night when Bo broomed Billy) swept through the NCAA tournament and captured the national title. Do you remember how they won it? With 2 seconds to go, the Wolves were 1 point down to Seton Hall. And Rumeal Robinson (their dyslexic point guard) was on the free throw line. Robinson needed 1 to tie and 2 to win. But he had to sink the first to get the second. And earlier in the season he had missed a pair of free throws with 8 seconds to go, costing Michigan a key game against Wisconsin. But with the title on the line, Robinson swished both. Afterward he said that there was no doubt.... no fear.... never a question in his mind.  He knew that he wouldn't miss, because he knew that he couldn't miss. He had entered "the zone."

Moments ago I read you a very different version of the same phenomenon. I read you the 23rd Psalm. And you probably snoozed through it, because if any slice of scripture can be too familiar, the 23rd Psalm can be too familiar.

But I read you some amazing stuff. I read about walking through the valley of the shadow of death. I read about spreading a table and sitting down to eat in the midst of one's enemies. I read about fearing no evil. Isn't that like "entering the zone?" It sounds like pretty much the same thing to me. It sounds like fear and anxiety fading away. It sounds like being filled with extraordinary confidence. It sounds like not knowing the outcome, but figuring that whatever the outcome may be, that things are going to be alright.

One of the neat things about studying scripture is that you never get the Bible completely figured out. You keep finding new things. And one of the things I never knew until recently is that the 23rd Psalm is called a "pilgrim's psalm." It was originally written for use by travelers who had to pass through dangerous stretches of country, facing both hardships and enemies on their way to the high holy festivals in Jerusalem.

Such treks to the temple were called "pilgrimages." And they were as difficult as they were necessary. Prudence often said: "Don't go this year. It's a dangerous trip." Duty responded: "If I forget you, 0 Jerusalem, let my right hand whither and let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth." In other words: "If I fail to go to Jerusalem, let me be as a crippled, speechless man."  So they went to Jerusalem, carrying these psalms. No doubt they sang them en route. The pilgrim psalms served as a confidence-building, faith-reinforcing talisman.

My dad had such a talisman. It was a St. Christopher medal that he pinned to the roof liner of every car he ever owned. Don't ask me why. My dad wasn't Roman Catholic. He didn't believe in saintly intervention. And he didn't believe in St. Christopher. But somebody gave him the medal and he probably figured, "It can't hurt." Which was pretty much my father's philosophy about religion in general.... that "It couldn't hurt." At any rate, when he died the St. Christopher medal just kind of disappeared. I didn't look for it. I don't use such things. I am told that contemporary Catholics don't either. But I don't disparage those who do.

The 23rd Psalm said (in effect): "On the way to the temple, things will not be easy. But you will make it there. And you will make it back." I especially like the line about "preparing a table in the midst of mine enemies." What an amazing image of confidence. One usually runs from enemies.... hides from enemies.... goes out of one's way to travel where enemies are not likely to be.... or travel at a time of day when enemies are likely to be occupied elsewhere. One does not march right into the midst of enemies, unfold a picnic table, spread a tablecloth, and sit down to eat. That's preposterous. No one takes time out for a Big Boy in the midst of the bad boys. To sit down to eat in the midst of one's enemies implies that the opposition is totally immobilized. It's like Pele said earlier: "It was as if I could dribble right through the defenders, every last one of them, and absolutely nothing could hurt me." We are talking about "entering the zone."

Consider Psalm 121, another pilgrim's psalm.  Bruce read it for you just moments ago. That's the one about lifting one's eyes to the hills and looking for help. Recall the line: "He will not let your foot be moved." Now cut to Carol Johnson (the gymnast) who said: "On good days the balance beam grows so wide that any fear of falling completely disappears." Both psalmist and gymnast seem to be saying the same thing, are they not.  "My foot will not slip.  It will not slip as I walk the narrow beam. It will not slip as I walk the narrow road. It will not slip as I walk the narrow way. And it will not slip as I straddle the narrow precipice where snares and dangers lurk on either side."

Consider Psalm 27. "Though an army (an entire army, mind you) pitches its camp against me, my heart will not fear. Though war be waged with me as its target, my confidence will not be shaken. For, in times of trouble, He will shelter me under his awning.... hide me deep within His tent.... or set me high upon a rock where my enemies will not be able to reach me."

Or consider Psalm 91. "No disaster will be able to overtake you. No plague will come near your tent. He will put His angels in charge of you. Should you dash your foot against a stone, they will lift you up on their hands."

And what of Psalm 139? Listen to some of its language. "Where can I go, 0 God, where You are not? If I climb to the heavens, You are there. If I lie down in the watery pit, You are there as well. If I fly to the point of the sunrise or dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, Your hand will still be guiding me.... holding me.... leading me."

That's an amazingly confident statement. But the Psalms speak of such confidence eloquently. And they speak of it frequently. They also sound like the testimonies of the athletes who talk about "entering the zone" .... where calm prevails.... where anxiety diminishes.... where mastery come to the fore.... and where there is a growing certainty that everything is going to be alright."

Now a fair question might be: "How does one acquire such confidence?" How does one "enter the zone?" In the article about the athletes, the researchers studying this matter came up with a theory. They said that the key is concentration. That's how you enter the zone. You concentrate. And concentration consists of a couple of major elements. First, one needs to feel at home where one is. Whether it be the batter's box, the balance beam, the free throw line, the first tee, or even the pulpit, one needs to feel comfortable there. I suppose that practice plays a part in that. After so many repetitions you say: 'There is nothing strange about this place.... nothing I have not seen before.... felt before.... overcome before.... mastered before." Concentration is a product of comfort.  And comfort is a product of familiarity.

But it takes more than that. Concentration also requires that you become supremely focused, to the degree that you permit no distraction. This requires you to put everything from your mind, save for the objective at hand. Have you ever noticed when a basketball game is in the hands of someone at the free throw line in the final seconds, what the opposition does? The opposition calls time out. Why? To "ice the shooter," that's why. And what does "icing the shooter" mean? It means: "Let him cool off. Let him think about what he is about to do." There are times when the most devastating thing an athlete can do is think too much.  Someone once asked Yogi Berra whether his knowledge of pitchers (gained from years of catching pitchers) helped him once he stepped into the batter's box. To which Yogi is alleged to have said: "Darned if I know. I can't think and hit at the same time."

Concentration! For an athlete it means blocking out all distractions and permitting no thought to enter, save for the one that is locked on the objective. That's why, when John Brodie was "in the zone," those crashing defensive ends didn't exist. Those lumbering tackles, who looked like sequoias in shoulder pads, didn't exist. Those quick-footed blitzing linebackers didn't exist. Those lithe and lean cornerbacks, who stuck to his receivers like glue, didn't exist. What existed? Nothing, save the quarterback and the wide receiver streaking toward the corner of the end zone. The rest was suspended animation. That was life "in the zone."

But we need to switch gears one more time. We need to go back to the Psalms and compare notes. How does the psalmist think we "enter the zone?" What does the psalmist believe produces this sense of diminished anxiety and elevated certainty? What does the psalmist think will generate that sublime trust that, though the outcome be unknown, the unknown need not be feared? What, to the psalmist's way of looking at things, enables one to believe that it is possible to sit down and eat a four course meal in the enemy's lair, with death and destruction lurking on every side?

Is it concentration? Is it suspension of thought? Is it blocking out all distractions? Is it cultivating such an extreme sense of singularity so that nothing else exists at that moment, but you? No! It isn't any of these things. What it is, is a cultivated sense of the presence of God. That's the secret, says the psalmist. Go back and read the pilgrim psalms once more. Listen to what they say: "I can get from here to there.... I can go to Jerusalem and back.... I can pass through whatever lies in my way.... for thou art with me." For the psalmist, it is not so much an issue of what you block out, but Who you let in. What an incredible affirmation this is. For the psalmist would seem to be saying: "There is no place you can go where God is not There is no environment so hostile so as to exclude the possibility of God's accompanying you there. There is no physical condition.... no emotional crisis.... no mental breakdown.... no spiritual malaise.... no loss.... no guilt... no sorrow.... no valley so impenetrable.... so as to defy God's ability to lead you through."

Let's wrap this up and put it to bed with one last story about an athlete. Given all he has been through, I am an unabashed fan of this man. His name is Orel Hershiser. He pitches for the Los Angeles Dodgers. And this particular story grows out of one of the more memorable World Series in recent history.... the one where Kirk Gibson limped up the dugout steps to take Eckersly deep and claim Game One for the Dodgers over Oakland. Now, however, it is Game Five. The Dodgers are up three games to one and Orel Hershiser has already won two of those games. Yet, here he is, pitching Game 5 on little or no rest. Somehow, he is in command through seven innings.

Now, however, it is the eighth inning. He is tiring. He is losing control. He begins walking people. Howell and Pena are heating up quickly in the bullpen. Lasorda is fidgeting in the dugout, trying to make a decision between his tiring star and two unreliable relievers. The Oakland crowd, mocking the chant of adoration that Hershiser often hears in LA, begins jeering (in sing-song fashion): "Orel.... Orel.... Orel." Hershiser looks at the stands....looks at the bullpen....looks at Lasorda. Then he steps off the mound, closes his eyes, and (for several seconds) takes a series of deep breaths. Then he steps back on the mound, gets Jose Canseco on a foul pop, closes out the eighth inning, retires the side in the ninth, and becomes the World Series MVP.

I suppose you could say that he "entered the zone." I suppose you could say that stepping from the mound, closing his eyes, and breathing deeply were acts of intensely focused concentration. I suppose you could say that he was blocking out 51,000 Oakland fans.... blocking out a trio of Oakland base runners.... blocking out Canseco at the plate.... blocking out Howell and Pena in the pen.... and blocking out Lasorda in the dugout.

Except that's not what he said. Maybe we should let Orel Hershiser finish his own story. After the game he was asked: "What about that tension in the eighth inning? What were you doing out there?" To which he answered: "When my adrenalin begins to race, I put my head back.... I close my eyes.... and (get this) I sing hymns." In other words, his is not an act which blocks everybody out, so much as it is an act which lets Somebody in.

My friends, when life gets rough.... when you get tired.... when there's a pilgrimage to be made.... when

the road to some Jerusalem forces you to pass through enemy territory.... when you are up against

giants.... when you have got to try and keep your balance in some narrow and perilous place.... or

when you feel like your life has entered the late innings and you are fading fast

Step aside.

Close your eyes.

Throw back your head.

And start singing

Through many dangers, toils and snares

I have already come.

'Tis grace has brought me safe thus far

and grace will lead me home.

“Nowadays You Can Be Too Careful” 7/18/1993

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Matthew 25: 14-30

There ought to be a law against preaching from the Gospel of Matthew in the summertime. For Matthew's version of things is always darker and more foreboding than other versions of the same things. There is, for example, more judgment in the Gospel of Matthew than in any other book of the New Testament, save for the Book of Revelation. All of the harsh images are there in Matthew: fire; worms; the outer darkness; weeping; wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Matthew is full of this.

What's more, Matthew violates one of the cardinal rules of good preaching. This is the rule which says: "If you have a negative thing to say and a positive thing to say, put the negative first." Send them home on some good news. You clean off the lot and then you build. You don't build and then clean off the lot. But Matthew does the opposite. He ends on the negative.

Consider the Sermon on the Mount. Where do you find it? In Matthew, that's where. Wonderful stuff. Three marvelous chapters of teaching. But how does Matthew finish it off? With a story about a wise man and a foolish man.  Each man built a house. One built on a rock. One on sand. How does it close? Not with the wise man who built his house on the rock. That's how I would have finished the story. Not Matthew. He closes with the house built on sand. The rains come. The winds howl. And the last visualization of the whole Sermon on the Mount, is that of a house and all of its contents floating downstream. That's Matthew for you.

Or consider Matthew's telling of the story of the ten virgins. Five are wise. Five are foolish. All are waiting for the bridegroom. Good preaching form would suggest that Matthew tell about the foolish ones first. This would enable the preacher to end with a story of the wise virgins, finishing on a rising crescendo of affirmation, which would leave everyone with the memory of a positive example ringing in their ears as they rise to sing the final hymn. But how does Matthew tell it? He gives us a closing scene of five foolish maidens, blood on their knuckles, banging on a locked door.

Or consider another of the stories that are unique to Matthew. The setting is a banquet. A wedding banquet. We are feeling good about the banquet. Why? Because the messenger has gone out to the highways and byways, the streets and the lanes, bringing in everybody. The good the bad and the ugly, all are sitting down to eat. That's good news. And just as they are about to plunge a chilled fork into the salad, the host arrives. He looks over the crowd. He spots a man without a wedding garment on. He walks over and says:       "Friend, how did you get in here?" The man is speechless. Wouldn't you be? Whereupon the host calls to the bouncer and says: "Throw him out." Just like that. "Throw him out." That's how the story ends.

Why does Matthew do that? Why does he feel a need to recast many of Jesus' stories so that they end on a downer? There can be only one answer. It is because Matthew is so concerned about what he finds, or what he does not find, in the church of his day, that he feels it his duty to warn them. Justifiable or not.  True to the merciful elements of the Gospel or not. Good preaching technique or not. Good news or not. That's what he does. Comes on strong. Comes down hard. Warns. Judges. Which is why Matthew ought to be out-of-bounds for summer. Matthew is too heavy for summer. Keep things light and airy in the summer. After all, people don't have to come. They could just as well make a pitcher of ice tea and sit by the pool. I'll have to think about that.

But in the meantime, we have this text from Matthew with which to contend. It is more familiar than the others I have mentioned. It is also harder to like. Concerning this story, Fred Craddock writes:

"There is a kind of shocking discomfort about Matthew's telling of the parable of the talents. It has the judgment, which I have come to expect in Matthew. It closes with the punishment, I have come to expect in Matthew. There has also been a success story or two. Five made ten. Two made four. But the emphasis is not on those who succeeded. The emphasis is on the one who buried it. I am even ready for that in Matthew. What I am not ready for in Matthew, or in any other writer who concerns himself with the Gospel of Jesus Christ, is to say that anybody is going to be bound hand and foot and thrown into the outer darkness (with weeping and gnashing of teeth) simply because they said to the Lord: "I was afraid.  I did what I did because I was scared.'"

And I am right with him. So are you. We're all uncomfortable. Why? Because we're all afraid. Some of us are more afraid than others. But we're all afraid to some degree. I wonder why.

It's not that we were born that way. I think it was in my first college psychology textbook that I saw that picture of a babysitting in the high chair. Locking the baby firmly into place is the little tray that slides in and out, the one on which you put the cereal before the baby puts the cereal in his hair.  But there is, in this picture, no dish of cereal on that tray.  What there is, instead of the cereal, is a coiled snake. And it is clear from the expression on the face of the baby that there is no fear there.

I am afraid of snakes. So are many of you. But we weren't born that way. We had to learn most of our fears. People helped us along by saying things like: "Watch it...look out...don't touch this... don't do that... don't go there... uh-uh-uh..." And many of those messages saved our lives. But some of those messages also scarred our lives.

Some of our fears were taught quite unintentionally. If I take my kids and crawl under the bed during a storm, it isn't going to make much difference if I say: "Now don't be afraid." I've already sent a message to the contrary.

My father was afraid of the water. I don't have the faintest idea why. I never saw him swim in it, or even wade in it. I can't remember seeing him in a boat more than a few times, and then never without a pained look on his face. And while I do not totally share his fear, I recognize that it was a part of my early learning that I had to overcome. And, to this day, I do not dive head first into water.

Sometimes fear can be exhilarating. Listen to a group of kids exiting from a thrill ride at Cedar Point. "I was scared to death. Weren't you? I thought I was going to die. I felt like I was going to lose my breath. I felt like I was going to lose my lunch. Wow! You want to do it again? Yeah, let's do it again."

What's wrong with being afraid? Go back to our text. The frightened servant says to Jesus: "Here! Take your money back. I buried it because I was afraid." What's the problem here? It's not just the fear. Nowhere does the Master say: "Shame on you, you shouldn't have been afraid." Instead, the Master says: "Look, if you were afraid, why didn't you just put my money in the bank. That way I would have gotten it back with interest. The fact is, you let your fear paralyze you... immobilize you... control you. It's not your fear. Of course you're afraid. But your fear became the governing factor of your life, so much so that you considered doing nothing a victory."

Pistons versus the Celtics. Game four of the series. Pistons are up two games to one. What we have is a chance to put the Celtics in a terrible hole. The game is at the Silverdome. Memorial Day.  Monday afternoon. Forty thousand people in the stands. The entire nation watching on TV. And what do the Pistons do? They stink up the joint. They lose- the game... the home court advantage.., the favorite's role... and the respect of their fans. They score but ten points in the first quarter. More importantly, they score but ten points in the last quarter, when thanks to the nearly equal ineptitude of the Celtics, the game was still there to be won. In the locker room after the game, with the rafters draped in crepe. Isiah Thomas said: "We were not playing to win. We were playing not to lose."

What did I say a moment ago? Sometimes fear becomes such a dominant factor in our lives, that we consider doing nothing a victory. We play not to lose.

Can you imagine a politician so consumed with the fear of not being elected, that no mailings are sent. "After all, I may not get elected. If I send all these letters, think of the bill I'll be stuck with." No radio or television spots are purchased. "After all air time is expensive. What if I am not elected?" No campaign workers go out with circulars to place on windshields of cars in the parking lot. "After all, what if I am not elected? I could end up owing hundreds of thousands of dollars." Then the election is held. The politician is not elected. He is heard to say: "Thank goodness, I don't have that huge bill."

Imagine a businessman, similarly consumed by fear, going into the grocery business. "You know, if I rent a building on a main street. I'll be out a lot of money." So he rents a little place on an alley. Then he says to himself: "You know, if I bring in a lot of produce and it doesn't sell, I could be left holding the bag." So he gets a few dark bananas, a couple of cabbage heads, and a can of peas. "You know, those electric cash registers that do everything including talk to people, those things are expensive." So he gets himself a cigar box. Then he says: "You know, you can't pay people today at the wages they want."  He gets his brother-in-law to run things. Then he takes a crayon and letters on a piece of cardboard: "Open for business." Misspells "business." The store fails. He goes home and says to his wife: "Congratulations, woman, you're married to a wise man. You and I could have been out a lot of money."

Can you imagine a minister in this church, or any other church, going home and saying to the spouse: "Congratulations. We just went another week without anything happening."

Fear!  It permeates every other crippling emotion we know. What is jealousy, if not the fear that you will leave me the first time someone more attractive comes along? What is greed, if not the fear that if I don't stuff away everything I can get my hands in the good times,  I will have nothing to fall back on in the bad times? What is anxiety, if not the fear of failing.., or losing.. or dying? Especially dying.

"Child, why did you lie to me?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Student, why did you cheat on this exam?"

"Because I was afraid."

"Servant, why did you bury my treasure?"

"Because I was afraid."

Afraid!  I was out mowing the lawn. It was about a week or so ago. And I looked up to see a nine pound sparrow walking down the street. I said: "Aren't you kind of heavy for a sparrow?" He said: "That's why I am out walking, trying to get a little of this weight off." I said: "Why don't you fly?" "Fly." he cried. "I've never flown. Seems to me that lots of things can happen to you when you fly. What do you think I am?" So I asked him what his name was. He said: "Mr. Church. My name is Mr. Church."

"Not along ago," says Fred Craddock. "my wife was away. I figured I'd have one of my big meals while she was gone. So I stopped into the Winn-Dixie Supermarket to get me a jar of peanut butter. But I didn't know where they kept the peanut butter. They have so much stuff in these supermarkets nowadays, and they change things around all the time, that you never can find anything. I tried to read the generic signs that they hang midway down each aisle. But I have yet to see one of those signs that says 'peanut butter.' Besides it was about 5:30 when I got to the store, which meant that the place was filled with people.

So I happened upon a women pushing a cart. She looked like she must be at home here. So I said to her: 'Pardon me, ma'am, could you tell me where the peanut butter is?'

She looked around at me and said: 'Are you trying to bit on me?'

So I said: 'Lady. I'm just looking for the peanut butter.' And just about that time a stock boy came along. He must have overheard part of the conversation, because he mumbled in passing: 'Peanut butter... aisle 5... about halfway down on the left.' So I went to aisle 5... halfway down on the left.  And there it was. Right where he said. So I got me a big jar of peanut butter. And suddenly along came the woman with the

shopping cart. She looked at me and said:       'You really were looking for the peanut butter.'

I said: 'I told you I was looking for the peanut butter.' And she said: 'Well, nowadays you can't be too careful.' And I said: 'Lady, yes you can. Yes, you can.'"

The world tells us to "take care." And Jesus tells us to "take care." But strange, isn't it? When the world says "take care." it means one thing. And when Jesus says "take care." it means something altogether different. The world says: "Better safe than sorry." And Jesus says: "No way."

"You should have multiplied what I gave you. You should have worked it, ventured it, risked it, advanced it, taken it further."

A little boy fell out of bed one night. His daddy heard the thud and hurried to his rescue. Fortunately, little harm was done. The next morning his daddy said to him at breakfast: "Why do you think you fell out of bed last night?" And the little boy said: "I think it was because I stayed too close to where I got in."

Which is why most of us fall from bed... from grace... from life itself... with a thud... to the floor.., to the bottom... or even to the outer darkness, wherever that may be.

Jailbreak

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Acts 16:16-40

One of the great delights of my early years in Detroit was seeing Tommy Teeter land in jail, especially when he had to go directly to jail.... could not pass "Go".... and was not allowed to collect $200. Meanwhile, I could take his turn as well as mine, all the while amassing money, purchasing properties, and putting houses (and even hotels) on properties already owned. For unlike Tommy Teeter, I had no fear of landing in jail. That's because on one of my earlier trips around the board, it had been my good fortune to draw a "Get Out of Jail Free" card.

The game (as you probably know) was Monopoly. And Tommy Teeter (as you probably don't know) was my friend. One summer, when we were somewhere around 11 or 12, we played Monopoly every time it rained. During one particularly-drizzly period, we played for three days on end, pausing only to eat and sleep. "Jail" was at the lower corner of the Monopoly board, and being forced to go there often meant the forfeiture of several turns. In short, being jailed meant that one was no longer free to play the game....no longer free to move around....no longer free to buy and sell....and no longer free to make (or lose) a fortune. While sitting in jail, one was out of the flow (so to speak), meaning that others went on while you sat still.

And so it is that in this game called life, the thought of "Jail" is equally abhorred by most of us. It represents the very antithesis of freedom. We'd just as soon not go there. And we'd just as soon not have anybody we know go there. Still there seem to be some who grow to like it. Overseers of the prison system report that no small number of potentially releasable inmates resist "parole" like the plague. And many who are let out, quickly commit crimes that will insure their return.... not always because they are bad people.... not always because they run with a bad crowd.... but because they perceive the free world to be a bad place and prison to be a better place. Which makes no sense to me. But what do I know?

A couple of weeks ago, Free Press columnist Susan Ager wrote about some common male fantasies. Don't get nervous. They were not what you think. One concerned a bank heist. That's right. A rather upscale, successful male acquaintance of Susan Ager has a fantasy about committing a bank robbery or two.... however many it will take before a judge sends him up the river for a few years.  Ideally, he envisions a resort-like prison of the kind that he believes once housed the Watergate conspirators.... a prison whose residents are all good conversationalists....whose library is well stocked with the latest best sellers....and whose pool is both clean and Olympic-sized. In short, he wants a prison where he can read, write letters, build his body, and maybe even get a law degree.  A prison where he can be.... well.... free. Free of what, you might ask? Free of anxieties and responsibilities, he might answer. And while you might counter by saying that no such prison exists (and that he wouldn't really be happy were he to find one), the fact remains that such fantasies are not entirely foreign to any of us, and (on those days when the world is altogether-too-much with us) might even be desirable.

All of which would seem to say that jail is not always as bad as it seems, and that freedom is not always as good as it seems. And that's a strange idea to contemplate, especially on the 4th of July. For freedom is not only a heritage we claim, but the principle which we believe sets us apart from (and perhaps one step above) those poor folk who have less of it that we do. There will be a lot of sloganeering before this day is done about "preserving and protecting freedom." As well there should be.  Few, will temper that prescription with a warning about freedom's more dangerous side effects. And almost no one in this freedom-loving-land will even hint that we do not know what true freedom is. No one, that is, save Luke, who is the author of this marvelous little tale in the book of Acts.  I have never preached this story before....until this morning, that is.

It's a great tale, really.... all about freedom and bondage, jails and earthquakes, complete with a mob, a sword, and even a hymn sing for good measure. So listen up. But keep at least one ear tuned to the issue of who (in this story) is free, and who is not.

We begin with Paul and Silas on their way to church. Sort of like us. Color them free. No one is making them go. No one is making us go. And if there should be a teenager in the house today who has been dragged here under threat of losing the car keys for a week, see me later. I'll see what I can do to get your money back.

Anyway, on their way to church, Paul and Silas are accosted by a slave girl. Color her unfree. She is a slave because she works the streets for money and then gives the money back to others (presumably men) who are described as her "owners." We have names for such ladies (and such owners) in this country. But wait. Things are not what they seem. This slave girl makes money on the streets, not with her body, but with her mind. She tells people's fortunes.... reads people's palms.... that kind of thing. It is believed that she knows how to do this because she is a little "unbalanced" (as they say). She is mentally ill. Her elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor. But in the vernacular of her day (when mental illness was far less understood than it is now), she is described as being "possessed by a demon." Which is not all that bad a description (whatever you may think of its psychiatric accuracy). That's because mental illness often feels as if some sort of intruder has walked in (unannounced) and assumed control.  If you have ever been terribly depressed.... or if you have ever been pulled this way and that in some schizophrenic-tug-of-war with reality.... you know that it feels like having been overtaken by some dark, intrusive force, against which you are powerless to compete.

Paul, after putting up with enough of this mad woman's raving, cures her in the name of Jesus. And the Bible says that she is "well," that very hour. Which, in a way, becomes her first real hour of freedom. And which, in another way, becomes Paul and Silas' last. For Luke writes that "when her owners see that any further hope of making money from her is gone," they seize Paul and Silas and drag them into the marketplace before the authorities. The owners, of course, represent the business community, who react instinctively when their cash cow is threatened. Which clearly blinds them to the fact that, were their money not involved, they would probably be rejoicing in her good fortune. After all, mental illness is bad. Sanity is good. And getting free from demons is customarily a reason to throw a party. But these owners are not "free" to do that. It is one thing to send an annual $100 check to the local mental health association. It is another thing to set this particular "crazy lady" free. It was the same feeling the Pork Dealers Association had when Jesus drove the demons out of the crazy man of Gadara, causing those same demons to take up residence in a nearby herd of pigs. As you remember the story, the demons drove the pigs over a cliff, causing them to plunge headlong into the sea. Which was a whole lot of pork chops down the river.

So the owners of the girl make their case before the magistrates, all the while arousing the crowd which is hovering on the fringe. Paul and Silas are painted as disturbers of the peace.... as Jews.... as foreigners.... and as "people who understand neither our laws or our customs." Talk about working up a crowd. In one short speech, the owners have managed to link nationalism with anti-Semitism ("everybody knows how the Jews are,") in a way that makes Paul and Silas look like the enemy of everything that is essential to truth, justice, and the Philippian way.

And if the magistrates know a judicial travesty when they hear one, even a right-thinking judge is going to think twice before rendering a ruling that will rile an angry mob. For the story suggests that it is the mob which is turning things into a mini-riot, leading to Paul and Silas being stripped, flogged, and jailed.... with orders given to the jailer to look after them securely.

And so our story ends with Paul and Silas rotting away in a Philippian prison until their hairs grow white, their nails grow green, and they eventually renounce their faith in return for an extra ration of leftover beenie-weenies.

No, that 's not how it ends. Instead, the story says that along about midnight Paul and Silas are praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners are listening to them. Picture it. Stripped, bruised, chained, and with their legs in stocks (forcing them to be stretched uncomfortably apart), Paul and Silas are leading a hymn sing.

A few years ago, Bishop Emilio de Carvalho, Methodist Bishop of Angola, was asked if there were any tensions between the church and the new Marxist government of his nation. He said: “Of course there are tensions. Not long ago the government decreed that we should disband all women’s organizations in our churches. But the women kept on meeting.” Then he added that the government was not, at that point, strong enough to do anything about it.

“And if the government becomes strong enough....”, he was asked? “Then we shall just keep on meeting (he responded). The government does what it needs to do. The church does what it needs to do.  If we go to jail for being the church, then we go to jail. Jail is a wonderful place for Christian evangelism. Our church made some of its most dramatic gains during the revolution when so many of us were in jail. In jail, you have everyone in one place. You have time to preach and teach. You have time to organize. You have time to evangelize. We came out of jail a much larger and stronger church.”

But back to our story.  Along about midnight (how’s that for high drama?) the earth heaves....the prison shakes....the doors fly open....and every last chain falls off every last prisoner. Which not only shakes up the prison population, but wakes up the jailer. The jailer is horrified at this chain of events. And knowing what can happen to jailers who let their prisoners escape, he draws his sword in disgrace and prepares to fall on it. At which time Paul shouts: “Hey, don’t kill yourself. Youhaven’t lost any prisoners. We’re still in here singing Kum Ba Yah.”

All of which must have blown the mind of the jailer. Just five minutes earlier, Paul and Silas were bound in chains and he was free to come and go. Now they are free to go, and he feels bound to die. Except that they don’t choose to go. So he doesn’t have to die.

And the jailer (recognizing a good thing when he sees it) says to Paul and Silas: “What must I do to be saved?” Meaning, “tell me where I have to go, and what I have to do, to get what you’ve got. Because while I’ve got a decent job (with tenure, cost-of-living adjustments, pension benefits, and a chance to make Warden if I don’t screw up), you guys have got something the likes of which I have never seen before....which seems to make you a whole lot happier (in the worst of circumstances) than what I’ve got is making me (in the best of circumstances).”  And so the jailer is baptized by the jailees.

Thus, at our tale’s end, everyone in the story who first appeared to be free (the girl’s owners, the judges, the jailer) are shown to be slaves. And everyone who first appeared to be enslaved (the crazy lady, Paul and Silas) are shown to be free. Leading a colleague of mine to observe that Jesus has a way of doing that to people.

What’s the point? You’re a bright congregation. The point ought to be obvious. The point is that real freedom has less to do with what goes on around us, than with what goes on within us. Furthermore, real freedom has nothing to do with the number of our choices, and everything to do with the quality of our choices.

But in case you still missed the point, let me give you (in closing) one look at a pair of multiple-choice lives and a contrasting look at what would appear to be a no-choice life.

The multiple-choice lives belong to a young couple I know. They were never my members or I wouldn’t be telling their story. I married them several years and two kids ago. They had good responsible jobs then. They have good responsible jobs now. Both work in what might be called the helping professions. Your paths could very easily cross theirs. But the only reason our paths crossed after no-small-passage of time, was that they suddenly needed my help. They had gotten themselves into a bit of a fix. Since I had seen them last, they had begun to drink a lot and party a lot. Which was how they began to drink and party with one particular neighbor couple. Which was how they began watching videos while drinking and partying with this particular couple. Which videos, overtime, became increasingly x-rated, portraying life in the loose lane as a most attractive alternative for liberated people. Which led to some talking. ..some teasing....some tempting. ...and (eventually) some swapping. Which lead (in turn) to some jealousy....some guilt....some anger.... and (eventually) some violence. Which is how the screaming, drunken ugliness of it all exploded onto the front lawn at 5:00 a.m. early one Sabbath morning, with the wife sobbing and the husband beating on the cops who were in the process of arresting and jailing him.

Happy to say, it was a wake up bell for their marriage. For while things are still too raw to call, I’d be willing to bet on them making it. At least they’re working hard. And in reflecting on what went wrong, the wife said: “I guess we just kind of overdosed on the ‘90’s. For in a world where anybody is pretty much free to do anything, we got carried away and tried a little bit of everything. And we nearly lost it all.”

But contrast their story with the no-choice life of Viktor Frankl....that most-amazing author who survived so much and wrote so eloquently on the subject of the German death camps of World War II. Over time, Viktor Frankl lost everything that was of value.  Work. Wife. Family. Friends. Freedom. In periodic attempts to break his spirit, he was put on “wheelbarrow duty” with his cargo being the skeletal remains of those who had been previously selected to have their miserable plight terminated by death. But the decision which kept him alive was his decision that his captors, who had claimed everything else, could not have his spirit. And that the one freedom that he could hold on to, was the freedom to choose the way he would look upon his situation and the meaning he would attach to it. With that decision made, he wrote: “I was a free man.... more so, even, than the guards who brought my daily ration of food and water, and who occasionally struck me in the act of delivering it to me.”

All of which would have made perfect sense to the Apostle Paul....and no sense, whatsoever, to Tommy Teeter. But, then, Tommy Teeter could never sing hymns, especially when he was in jail.

Editor’s note: This sermon owes a debt of gratitude to William Willimon’s treatment of the same text in a sermon prepared for delivery at the Duke University Chapel and subsequentlyreprinted in his book Preaching To Strangers.