Home By A Different Way 12/26/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 2:1-12

When I was a kid, Dick Bowman always got be a wise man....at least as I remember it. I think it had something to do with his being taller than the rest of us. Someone said that the church only had "tall" bathrobes. For all I know, Mrs. Bowman probably donated them.

It's funny how things like that stay with you. I can see those wise men coming down the aisle like it was yesterday. The organ was playing "We Three Kings of Orient Are." They looked so regal....so tall....so stately. Somebody had made crowns for them to wear, which were really cardboard cutouts covered with gold foil. Their bathrobes were tied with a sash. But it was the way they carried the gifts that captured me... .proudlycarefully.. ..with great dignity....as If transporting each item for the Christ child was a task for which they had rehearsed an entire lifetime. At last they reached the front of the church, deposited their gifts at the child's feet, nodded with oriental respectability in the general direction of Mary and Joseph, and then went to stand beside a cardboard cutout of a camel.

It wasn't until last Sunday night that I got to make that journey for myself. Suddenly it was my turn. Doris Hall was playing "We Three Kings" on the organ. My page, gift in hand, was standing at the ready. Suddenly Kate Wilcox was whispering in my ear that it was time to march down the aisle. I wondered aloud if I would know where to go. She reminded me that I had rehearsed this journey several times. Even if I forgot, I simply had to follow Bill Ives. Which I did. And it was marvelous.

It was years before I understood that things may not have happened exactly as depicted in the pageants. Over time, I learned that it is only in Matthew's gospel that these three from the East appear. I learned that later church tradition had them arriving, not on Christmas Eve at all, but twelve nights later. I learned that in spite of the familiar language of the carol, these visitors were not exactly kings....nor were they exactly from the Orient. New Testament scholar, Sherman Johnson, writes: "There is no way to ascertain whether the account of this visiting threesome has been embellished, or whether it even happened at all. For these verses have no parallel or corroboration In any other first century Christian writing."

They are not called "kings" at all. 'Wise men" is the more common translation, but "magi" is probably a better one. When we track the word to other sources, we find some evidence that "magi" was a word once ascribed to a tribe of Midian priests. Elsewhere, the same word 1 refers to a Zoroastrian priestly caste. In 60 AD. an embassy of Parthian magi (or priests) Is recorded in Roman chronicles as paying homage to the Roman emperor Nero, and "returning home by another way." Which is a most curious phrase, in that it first turns up In a Roman record written In 60 A.D., and then turns up in exactly the same manner in Matthew's gospel, written in 85 A.D.

It is also fascinating to note the linguistic linkage between the word "magi" and the word "magician." This may explain the growing body of acceptance for the idea that the "magi" may also have been magicians, or a particular group of magicians who used the stars in effecting their magic. Therefore, the "magi" may not have been wise men or kings at all, but astrologers. Matthew, it has been suggested, may have been referring to three visiting Babylonian astrologers. If you were to say that an astrologer is a long way from a king, you would probably be right. But then Babylon was a long way from the Orient, which goes to show you what sometimes happens to stories over time.

But that's all right. It really is. It may be that Matthew introduces foreign visitors into his story, simply as a way of saying: "Look, the birth of this child is no isolated event. This is a world event. This is not simply a Jewish Messiah. This is one who attracts foreigners." To have foreign visitors come to Bethlehem certainly magnifies the occasion. It gives it scope and significance. It broadens it out. It is like CBS covering an event in Standish. Or People Magazine sending a reporter to Iron River.

But It may be even more than that. If, Indeed, these men were astrologers....and if astrologers were, in some sense of the word, magicians.. ..and if astrological magic were as rampant then as it is today... .then perhaps Matthew is saying: "Look, even magic bows down before the Christ. When Christ comes, magic meets its match." Astrologers are humbled, in that they bow down and worship him. Astrologers may chart the heavens.

Jesus, however, rules the heavens. But, like I said, I didn't know all that years ago. And that's all right, too. For the test of the story is not solely in Its factual verifiability. The test of the story lies in the story's ability to lead us to Jesus. So we will hitchhike on any approach that works.

Which is, ironically, what Herod tries to do. Herod uses the Wise Men as his private vehicle of approach. Now why a king such as Herod should be interested in approaching this particular child is a question that strains the boundaries of credibility. Herod is a very powerful king. And Jesus is a very tiny baby. In point of fact, Herod is not interested in births at all....at least any Jewish birth. Herod is interested in Jewish ideas rather than in Jewish babies. Specifically, Herod is interested in Jewish political ideas. For Herod is a very political animal. And the one Jewish political idea which scares the daylights out of Herod, is the idea that a Messiah is coming... .one whose birth will fulfill the promised return of the Davidic Monarchy....one whose birth will quicken the pulse of every Jewish militant in the hills, and every ardent Zealot In the cities....one whose birth will stiffen the spine of this subjugated people....and one whose birth will give them a symbolic dream around which to rally. Herod has nothing to fear from the baby, himself. But Herod has plenty to fear from what the baby represents.

So, having heard the rumors, Herod is troubled. And all Jerusalem is troubled with him. You can understand that. If the king is happy, the people are happy. But if the king is anxious, neighborhood drugstores suffer a run on Maalox.

Herod summons Jewish religious leaders. "Look," he says, "you people have writings which talk about a special One who is to come. Now just assuming this preposterous claim were true, where might He appear?"

"In Bethlehem," he is told....which literally means "house of bread." Next, Herod summons the Wise Men (or magi....or astrologers) and says: "Look, I keep hearing about a birth....a town....and a star. And you guys are in the star business (not that I believe in such stuff, of course. I skip that section of the newspaper every morning. I don't even know what my sign is). But let's just suppose that someone were interested in this star stuff. When would this star show up?"

And they tell him. Which is followed by the part that intrigues me....the part that I have worked all this time to set up. Herod speaks again. "Look, why don't you guys check it out. Then come back and report to me, so that I might go and worship also."

Fat chance. This Is beginning to smell like a plot. And if these three astrologers from Babylon (or wherever) have any smarts about them at all, surely they can smell it too. For it smells of fear, and stinks like conspiracy. And underneath It is the faintly disguised odor of impending violence. Which is the correct odor. For we will not have to read much further into Matthew's second chapter before Jesus and his parents will be racing for cover in Egypt, with Herod slaughtering every male infant in sight, accompanied by the refrain of Rachel weeping in loud lament for her children. That's the part of the story we never read on Christmas Eve.

One permissible inference that can be drawn, Is that violence smears everything.. ..even the Christmas story. And I suspect that everybody knows that. I suspect that our three astrologers knew that, which is why they initially played bail with Herod. They stopped by for a chat. They went on his mission. But what choice did they have. You get along by going along. These guys are not stupid. They know Herod's game. And they know Herod's fame. They know that upon reporting back to Herod concerning the child's whereabouts and hair color, Herod isn't going to wrap a baby gift and go between the hours of 2 and 4 o'clock to tap on some maternity room window, saying: "Show me that one over there....the one with the blue blanket....that cute little Jewish kid." No, they know Herod's not going to do that. What Herod is going to do, they are not sure. But they know he's not going to do that. Still, one suspects that they are prepared to come back and tell Herod everything he wants to know. That is, until they see the child. The scriptures are so simple and unadorned here. They enter the house. (Note that there is no stable in Matthew's gospel. Stables are Luke's thing). They enter the house. They see the child with his mother. They fall down. They worship. They open presents. And then, 'Warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they depart for their own country by another way."

You know, It was years before I gave any thought to this business about an alternative route home. After all, people vary their journeys all the time. You come by one road. You go 3 home by a different road. Maybe you do It for variety. Maybe you do it for scenery. Maybe the first road was too slow....too rough....too obstructed. Maybe you receive a tip from one of the locals, or stumble upon a guidebook you hadn't seen before. Maybe you take a chance while you're In the area and call your long lost uncle Jack, who tells you that an additional 85 miles will put you at his doorstep in time for dinner. Or maybe you are swayed from your original course by two of the most persuasive words in the English language, "outlet shopping."

But let's not kid ourselves. None of these things explain why these men of the Orient (or Babylon) go home by a different route. They know that if they retrace the steps that brought them to the baby, those steps will take them back through Herod's house... .Herod's fear....Herod's plot....and Herod's predilection to smear everything he touches with violence. It could be that they were cowardly, seeking to save their own necks. It could be that they were crafty, seeking to save Jesus' neck. Or it could be that, having been to the manger, they said to themselves: "After searching for lo these many days (months? years?) we have seen a glimpse of a better way than Herod's way, and are going to take one small step down a different road."

My friends, I don't know about you, but I am tired of the violence that smears so much of my history. I am tired of talking about it. I am tired of trying to understand it. I am tired of listening to explanations of it. And I am tired of watching everybody try to blame everybody else for it.

What's more, I think that a lot of you are where I am. I think that there is a ripeness and a readiness to move beyond anger... .beyond avoidance..., beyond frustration... .and beyond impotence, that I have not seen or felt before. I think that a lot of us are beginning to realize that we come equipped with two hands, and that it is no longer enough to simply wring them... .wash them....cover our eyes with them....pass the buck with them... .or point the fingers of them.

I think of the grandmother I told you about last week, who actually watched the video game she bought for her grandson, before taking it back to the store because of its excessive violence.

I think of the wife of the Chelsea teacher (the teacher who gunned down the superintendent) who first called the victim's office with a word of warning, then confronted her husband as he faced her with his gun, and then was the first to administer CPR to the dying victim.

I think of the Walmart people who one day last week said: `We're not going to sell anymore handguns." Then they went on to add: 'This isn't anything political or constitutional. We're not taking a stand on any issue or confronting any lobby. We simply don't believe that this is a business that the majority of our customers want us to be in." And then I think of any number of you who are quietly writing a letter....switching a channel....turning a cheek....sending a buck to somebody who appears to be making a dtfference....or quietly vowing to think a second time before screaming, blowing the horn, cussing somebody out, slipping somebody the one finger salute, slapping a kid, shoving a spouse, or actually striking anybody (or anything).

My friends, failure to try something different....anything different. ...simply sends us back through Herod's house to perpetuate Herod's way. At least the men of the Orient knew better. Which, come to think of it, may be why history records them as wise.

Go Ahead and Take It Personally 9/26/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Genesis 3:1-13

Every so often, J.P. McCarthy provides a valuable service for his WJR listeners by inviting them to call him up and tell his vast radio audience what is bugging them. "No matter what it is.... no matter how insignificant it seems.... no matter how big or small it may be.... if it rankles in your craw, call it in and spill it out."

It's kind of interesting to find out what bugs people. It never seems to be anything of substance. But, then, it seldom is. As any hiker knows, it's not the size of the pebble in your shoe that matters, so much as how long you've been walking on it.

Little things bug us. Know what bugs me? One thing that bugs me is that when people are about to say a word to me which is either painful or critical, they preface it with a disclaimer which is somehow supposed to soften the blow of what they are about to say. The disclaimers come in all shapes and sizes. But one that especially gets to me is when people introduce their critical opinion with the phrase: "Now I'm only saying this for your own good." Whenever I hear those words, a series of radar-like signals go off in my brain.  I find myself becoming defensive.  I also find myself torn between wanting to know what is coming next, and not wanting to know.

Part of my problem is a trust problem. I don't always trust the motives of the speaker. I know that for every person who tells me something of a critical nature "for my own good," there is another person who tells me something of a critical nature for their own good.  I suppose another part of my problem involves some ancient memories. People who tell me things "for my own good," generally assume that they know "my own good" better than I do. Sometimes they do. But the reminder always comes off sounding parental. And parental messages always trigger ancient memories. We didn't like it when our parents knew what was good for us then, and, we are not all that sure we like it any better now. It is not that we are unwilling to face criticism. Most of us have made our peace with that. But most of us would prefer our doses of corrective medicine delivered directly, unprefaced by words of disclaimer that come masquerading as kindness.

Close cousins to the people who tell us critical things "for our own good," are the people who begin harsh judgments with the words: "Now I don't want you to take this personally....". I wish it were that easy.  I wish I had more trust in the motives of people who speak this way. All too often, it seems as if the ones who tell me that I shouldn't take something personally, are the very same people who phrase things in such a way, that there is no way left to take things, but personally. I am acquainted with one individual who uses this phrase as a legal license to hurt. Once he gets it out of the way, he feels he can say virtually anything.  And often does.

Some things, however, do need to be "taken personally."  In this world (where loneliness and overpopulation seem to be paradoxical social ills) there is a genuine hunger for relationships which are personal. Consider the growing number of self advertisements in the "Personals" columns of daily newspapers and monthly magazines. I am occasionally drawn to these cryptic self- descriptions, wondering who in the world writes them.  All of these people sound so interesting and attractive. I find myself wondering why it is that people with so much to offer, have to resort to newspaper ads and post office boxes to find someone to offer it to. And notice, if you will, that the common denominator for all such ads is the seven-letter word "seeking." Everybody seems to be seeking something.... or someone.... which somehow keeps eluding them. The thirst is great. But the normal wells keep coming up dry. The "personals" ads are modern-day scriptures of loneliness. But I don't mock them, because there have been times in my life when I could have written them. And there have been times in your lives when you could have written them too.

Alas, not all hungers are easily satisfied. And not all hungers can be humanly satisfied. To be sure, we hunger for friends.  We hunger for lovers.  But we also hunger for God.  And our hunger does not stop at the door of the church.  Even we who claim to know much about God, seek more intimate knowledge of God. While I doubt that the search consumes any of us all of the time, I am convinced that it consumes virtually all of us, some of the time. There are no exemptions, even among professional Christians. Carlyle Marney was both a great Baptist and a great theologian. It was Dr. Marney who became something of the conscience of the South, during those years in which his powerful voice boomed from the pulpit of Myers Park Baptist Church in Charlotte, North Carolina. He was one of my heroes in the 60's and 70's. Many of us knew him as a man whose preaching reeked with honesty, and whose honesty increased with age. Listen to these words, written in the latter stages of his career:

And now, a long way out of Seminary, a veteran of the classic descriptions of God, doctrines of God, dogmas about God, and a reader of endless books on revelation, inspiration and incarnation....I con­fess to you that I long for God, have waited for God, have run after God, and have often said more about God than I knew. Moreover, I have worshipped God, analyzed God, prayed for God, to God, with God, and (along with a great majority of my colleagues) have beat endlessly upon the gates of heaven for some word of God to share with others.

I find that I am now becoming old enough and honest enough to be able to say "Amen" to that, without any sense of vocational embarrassment or shame.

But, to all of that, I would add that men and women are not the only seekers. I would put God in the seeking class. I think that there is something in God that clearly hungers after us. I think that there is some essential emptiness in God that only we can fill. And I think that out of the kind of loneliness that only unreturned love can know, God first created men and women so that God would have someone to talk to. And it is out of that same loneliness (I think), that God comes looking for us.... not so much to check up on us.... not so much to catch us in the act of being "ungodly".... but out of a genuine curiosity as to where it is that we have gone off to, and what it is that we have been up to.

Which, of course, brings us to Adam, which is where (moments ago) Charlie laid the story down. So let's pick it up there. God has gone looking for Adam. Adam, however, is hiding. I suppose that this explains why we human beings do not connect with God more often than we do, because it is hard to look for God and hide from God at the same time. Not only is it hard, it is schizophrenic. But it is certainly not impossible. If you think it is impossible, let me tell you that there are all kinds of people out there who desperately want something, yet who are scared to death of finding the very thing they want. Which may also explain why lonely people look for lovers in want ads, given that there is not much chance of finding them there.

But back to our story. This time we have God looking for Adam. God calls out: "Where are you?" To which Adam says: "I'm hiding." Which is really a rather stupid thing to say if you are genuinely hiding. Did you ever play hide and seek with a small child?  No matter how well the child has hidden, he will always find some way to tip off his whereabouts, because a child cannot stand the thought of not being found.

I must confess to you that I am not enamored with the idea of Adam in hiding. I want Adam to start things off with God on a more equal footing.  None of this hiding business.  I want Adam and God to sit down man to man. A man who runs and hides from God is a man who will surely pass the buck, first chance he gets. Definitely unmanly. Adam exhibits very poor form.

In fact, I would like to see the story written differently. I would have God come to Adam's office. I would put the office at the top of a very tall building. An "office tower" would be nice. God would have to look up Adam's floor upon entering the lobby. Then God would have to take an elevator to Adam's suite. God would check in with the receptionist, who would politely inquire as to the proper spelling of God's name, before phoning word of God's arrival to Adam's inner office.

Upon appearing at the door, Adam would be very gracious. He would ask that God be shown in, and would instruct his secretary to hold all calls for the next half hour or so. God would comment favorably on the furniture in Adam's office, taking special note of the art on Adam's walls. There would be a recent picture of Eve on the desk. God would render an approving comment. Adam would then send out for coffee and Danish, trying to remember whether God took one lump or two. Adam would try on, only to reject, the idea of inviting God home for dinner.... not being certain how Eve would take it, and remembering that the Garden was still a little bit messy when he went to work that morning. At long last, they would begin to talk, with God on one side of the desk and Adam on the other.

Don't tell me I can't write it that way. I can write it any way I want. After all, all I am trying to do is cover up Adam's nakedness a little bit. And concerning this business of "nakedness," remember that "being naked" in this story has little to do with the lack of adequate clothing. Being naked in this story has everything to do with the lack of an adequate defense. To be naked means to be stripped of any visible means of covering one's tail. To be naked is to be exposed.... and to be aware that one is exposed.

But don't miss what comes next. Note that it is Adam, not God, who introduces the subject of nakedness. God simply asks the question: "Where are you?" God does not say: "Come out, come out, wherever you are.... two bits says you're naked as a jay bird." No, God doesn't say that at all. God just inquires as to the whereabouts of Adam. It is Adam who says: "I heard the sound of You in the garden, but I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid." And don't miss what God says next. God says: "Who told you that you were naked?" I love that. It means that Adam spilled his condition before he was even accused.  God does not have to say anything.  God does not have to ask Adam anything. God does not have to investigate, interrogate, or even cross examine Adam. God simply has to show up and Adam spills the beans.

Which leads me to a story. It's a Howard Thurman story. Howard Thurman was a saintly black preacher.... author of spiritual classics.... semi-mystic.... founding pastor of San Francisco's Church of All

Nations.... and (finally) Dean of the Chapel at Boston University. Howard Thurman was recalling his boyhood years.

The streets were a way of life, and the game of the streets was marbles. But with our gang there were certain rules. Among our gang you could trade marbles and you could win marbles, but you couldn't keep any marbles you won from another kid on the street. And, most importantly, you could never keep another kid's "shooter" marble. But one day a new kid moved onto the block. And this new kid was fat and friendless. But he soon found that the entré into our group depended on getting some marbles. Which he did. They were all new and shiny, not like ours. So we decided to let him play. But where marbles were concerned, this kid wasn't very good. And he wasn't very bright. And he didn't know the rules that prevailed on our street. So we let him watch.... which made him feel good. Then we let him play.... which made him feel better. Then we let him win a little.... which made him feel great. And then we cleaned him out.... and divided up his marbles.  And among the marbles I took home was his "shooter." It was the most beautiful and brilliant marble I had ever seen.

I took my new prize home and added it to my collection. I was polishing it before bed when my mama came in. My mama looked at my marbles.... looked at me.... looked at my marbles.... and said: "Howard, where'd you get that shiny shooter?"  I could tell by the sound of her voice that she was seeing right through me. I managed to mumble some excuse, even though I could tell that she was seeing right through that too. But she didn't say anything. She just shrugged her shoulders and left the room. Still I could tell that she was disappointed in me. After that, the marble didn't seem nearly so pretty.

So after a night of mostly not sleeping, I took the new marbles back to school. And when my friends weren't around, I gave them back to the kid who was fat and friendless. That night, just before din­ner, I walked through the kitchen where my mama was. And as I was about to pass into the dining room, I said (over my shoulder): "By the way, you'll be glad to know that I gave back the marbles I stole." Quickly, she turned and said: "Howard, what are you talking about? What marble, who stole?" And then I realized that she didn't know anything about it. It was all in me.

And God said to Adam:  "Adam, whatever are you talking about? Who told you, you were naked?"

Some people don't like religion because they say it makes them feel guilty. That may be true. But I also suppose that there are times when religion takes a bum rap. Religion does not make us feel guilty. We make ourselves feel guilty. Most of us do not need a lot of help.

How schizophrenic we are. We look for God because we can't stand the loneliness. And we hide from the God we look for, because we can't stand the exposure. Thankfully, God often finds us first, cutting through the schizophrenic splitness of our human condition.

Let's make a big jump. Jump with me 900 years.... 900 pages.... and one entire Testament.   See Jesus talking to a foreign woman by a village well. They are standing there at noontime. The time of the day seems like such a throwaway detail. But it's not. It is extremely significant. We are not certain as to why Jesus is there at noontime.  For sake of argument, let's assume that He is thirsty. We do, however, know why the lady is there at noontime. She is there because nice ladies come to the well in the morning and the evening. But she is not a nice lady. So she comes at noon to avoid getting stared at or talked about.

The conversation begins. I hope that you know how strange it is that this conversation (between a male, would-be, Jewish messiah and a not-so-nice foreign lady) takes place at all. But what a wonderful conversation it turns out to be. She wants to talk about water. Then she wants to talk about theology. It seems that Jesus wants to talk about husbands. She has had five. And she is currently living with number six, who is not yet hers by benefit of clergy. And I'd give almost anything to have heard the last two or three hours of that conversation. Because if you think that John has told us everything that happened there, you're more naive than I think you are. Somehow, Jesus found her.... talked to her... listened to her.... and then confronted her in a way that was so brutally honest, and yet so wonderfully affirming, that she went back to her village a different woman. And later that evening, when she didn't respond to the men at the tavern in the way that she usually did, she told them: "I want you to come see this man by the well, who spoke to my human situation in a way that no one ever spoke to it before."

And because there is so much hunger in us for that kind of honesty and that kind of love, the author of John's gospel adds this marvelous little detail when he says: "And the whole village dropped what they were doing and came running out to see this miracle for themselves."

My friends, whether you run after it

whether you stand still and let it come to you

whether it reaches in and pulls you out of your hiding place

when you hear that kind of word

or when you meet that kind of love

for God's sake (and for your own) take it personally

Sometimes A Very Earthen 9/19/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, MI

Scripture: II Corinthians 4:1-12

Had he lived to see it, no one would have been more pleased by the recent accord between Israel and the PLO than Dr. Harrell Beck. In his prime, Harrell Beck was as good a preacher as there was, and also as good a teacher as there was. The Old Testament was his subject. Boston University was his school. But the Middle East was what he knew.... where he sometimes lived.... and the region from which he first claimed his wife. Concerning the tensions in that part of the world, he was inordinately fond of saying: "Who should know about this struggle better than I, given that I go to work with the Hebrew scriptures every morning, and go to bed with an Arab woman every night?"

And it was the same Harrell Beck who told me the story of the Arab sheik who once took a bag of dates back to his tent to enjoy before bedtime. After making himself comfortable, he lit a candle, removed a date from his bag, held it up against the candlelight, found it wormy, and proceeded to throw it out the door of the tent. So he took a second date, examined it against the light, found it similarly wormy, and threw it out of the tent.  A third date led to a third examination, revealing a third worm, and a third eviction from the tent.  Whereupon he paused, thought for a moment, blew out the light, threw the candle out of the tent, and proceeded to eat the rest of the dates that remained in his bag.

I suppose you could draw any number of points from a story like that. But the point that leaps out at me is this. If you look at anything close enough.... in a light that is bright enough.... you are likely to find it flawed.  Which is certainly true of the church. And which is painfully true of the clergy.

Concerning clergy, these are not easy days for many who do what I do for a living. I have been pondering this sermon since that mid-August morning when I wandered into a Traverse City bookstore and saw the Detroit News headline about the resignation of my Episcopal colleague, Almas Thorpe.  For more than a decade, Almas has served as the Rector of our neighboring house of worship, Christ Church, Cranbrook.  His resignation, it seems, was tendered voluntarily, albeit not without some degree of coercion (bordering on a mandate) from his ecclesiastical superior, Bishop Stewart Wood. I know Bishop Wood, having once broken bread with he and his wife. To my best recollection, I have never met Almas Thorpe, although there is a certain kinship to be felt with anyone who is 53 years old and who presides over a major suburban congregation in North Oakland County. In the cold hard facts of a newspaper page, it was reported that Almas Thorpe committed adultery with several women, on several occasions, over the course of several years. And in a somewhat warmer letter to the people of Christ Church, he acknowledged those allegations to be true, and expressed both his contrition and sorrow for any pain he may have caused (in the course of being any less than he might have been).  Not many days after all of this became public, our staff here at First Church held a half-day retreat at Christ Church (which location had been previously arranged before our destination became somewhat controversial). Following a tour of the sanctuary, we learned from the business administrator that Christ Church was both reeling and rallying from the announcement...

that a young assistant rector was exhibiting exceptional maturity in leading the congregation.... and that summer attendance had never been stronger (as people found "gathering" to be the first essential step in "healing"). It was interesting that as the eight of us walked past the wall where the pictures of past and present rectors are prominently displayed, every one of us paused to look at Almas Thorpe's picture. Stranger still was the fact that the first comment out of virtually all of our mouths was: "My gosh, he really is handsome, isn't he." I don't have the faintest idea what that meant. But we all said it. Certainly none of us believed that physical beauty renders one more susceptible to adultery. Or did we? Perhaps we did. ("Ah, look how good looking he is. Surely that explains it.")

Upon first confronting the headline of Almas' indiscretions, I brought the newspaper home and laid It on the coffee table. It was only later that I noticed that it was adjacent to the Newsweek magazine cover which screamed: "Sex and the Church: Priests and Child Abuse." And on that same coffee table was a very serious book I was reading. Its title was "Saints and Sinners." Its author was Lawrence Wright. And its text profiled six prominent persons of religion, including Walker Bailey (that once-rising star of Texas Methodism.... who (on the way to being touted for bishop), may or may not have strangled his wife. Unfortunately, his wife can't tell anybody the truth of the matter, given that she has spent the last four years of her life in what has been described as a persistent vegetative coma.

All of this troubles me, I suppose, because all of this taints me. Where clergy are concerned, people already have enough reasons to mistrust us, shy away from us, and turn their collective backs on the God whom we serve. As we learned during the demise of Jim and Tammy (and the fall of the House of Swaggert), every church-related scandal paints with a broad brush, and the world does not lack for people who are ready and willing to point out the stains.

But when these things hit closer to home than Charlotte, North Carolina or Baton Rouge, Louisiana, what I feel is not so much "the troubling" as it is "the pain."  I look upon our Episcopal neighbors to the north and realize the "quiet carnage of hurt" that has swept over them. There must be enough pain present to give everybody a second and third helping, whether they desire it or not. I think of the people whose lives are in pieces. And I think of other people who are tenderly trying to sweep up the pieces (so that they don't get any more broken than they already are, and so that none of the pieces gets lost).

I think about Almas and wonder how it must feel to be 53 and see so much of one's past slipping away. I wonder how it must feel to know that one has hurt the very people that one has been commissioned to help. And I wonder what it would be like to say an enforced "goodbye" to a congregation one day, with little likelihood of being able to say "hello" to another, the next.

I think about his wife (who left him several months previous).... and what she must have gone through before she did.... and what she must be going through now. Ditto for his kids. And double ditto for his friends.

I think about the other women.... and how superfluously "catch all" that category sounds ("other women")....  and how they must have thought they loved him.... and how he must have thought he loved them.... and how empty-handed such people come up, when (as the song says) they go "looking for love in all the wrong places.” I think of the marriages of those "other women."  I also think of the number of uninvolved people trying to figure out who the involved people were.... and whether they

knew them.... all the while understanding what such speculation can do to rip apart the cohesion of any community (even a faith community).

Clearly, what Almas did was as unfortunate as it was inappropriate. It does not serve anybody well when the shepherd fleeces or fondles the flock. Some years ago, Kris and I were entertaining an old friend in our living room.  Earlier that evening, he had preached a sermon in the church I was then serving. Out of friendship he had come north from one of the largest and most influential congregations in Ohio.  He talked about his love for his church.  But he also talked about the amount of pastoral work still needed there. This additional quotient of pastoral care was necessitated by his predecessor's divorce and subsequent departure with another woman who had deep roots in that congregation.  That conversation with my friend was a decade or more ago. Last year my friend not only reopened that congregation's wound, but salted it. How so? By resigning his position, divorcing his wife, and departing in the company of yet another woman with deep roots in the congregation.

To all of this, I have but a pair of things to say. And I submit that while the two may appear to be contradictory, each of them is true. Hear me out.

First, we who (as clergy) would profess to speak to Christ's Church and for Christ's Church, need to understand that we will be looked at by Christ's church in a closer light than other people.... and (I think) properly so.  Clergy do not like to hear this.  I have not always liked hearing this.  Few of us like the "fishbowl" nature of our existence.  We do not like being watched, we say.  Our spouses do not like being watched, we say. Our children do not like being watched, we say. We are ordinary, flawed, fallible human beings.... fighting the same demons.... wrestling with the same doubts.... struggling with the same sins as everyone else... we say.  All of this is true.  And I, for one, have never attempted to pretend otherwise.

Still, we (who accept this calling) are asked to do more than merely confess our common humanity. We are asked to live lives worthy of emulation. That's the part of the job I have never liked, given the awesome nature of the responsibility. But with the passing of the years, I have come to accept it as being both inevitable and necessary.  Who says so?  The Apostle Paul, that's who.  Four times he wrote to churches under his care, saying: "Be imitators of me."  "Become as I am," he told them. Which is quite a thing to say when you are as human as Paul was.

To the Philippians he wrote: "Ignore those enemies of the cross whose god is the belly" (wouldn't you like to know what that meant) "and recognize that you have an example in us." Paul, in appealing to his flock for imitation, placed himself squarely in that moral and pedagogical tradition which assumes that a teacher is one who is willing to be exposed to the glare of a student.... that the road to learning is in the imitation of a Master.... and that those in the forefront have a responsibility to live as they lead, and walk as they talk.

Concerning all of this, my colleague at Duke Chapel (William Willimon) adds

Lifestyle is ultimately converted through lifestyle. And there can be no weaseling out of the truth, that discipleship is utterly dependent upon our being able to identify examples worthy of imitation. And if we who preach the faith can't point to such examples.... even to ourselves.... we really have very little to say.

While it is too much to ask that clergy become "poster children" for the Christian life, it is not too much to ask that we live as if our preaching has taken root in us.... and that our claim that "things go better with Christ" might just be true because, from outward appearances, things seem to be going better with us. A group of sixth graders once sent a note forward to their teacher. Upon unfolding it she read: "If you are happy, why not send a message to your face." All of which suggests a second note, scribbled and passed from congregation to clergy.  Unfolded, it might read: "If discipleship is as possible and as wonderful as you say, send a message to your life."  In short, people probably do have a right to ask more from us.... and expect more of us.... than they ask and expect of themselves.

Having said that, however, I think that it is absolutely critical to remember that most clergy.... like most dates.... are wormy. It is also important to remember that God not only knows this, but has designed it so.  If I were God, I would have done it differently.  I would have created an elevated breed.... a worm-resistant breed.... in short, a better breed.... to feed those who come hungering to the tent of meeting. But God didn't.  Instead, God entrusted this treasure to earthen vessels.... meaning clay pots.... occasionally meaning cracked pots.... in which this fine wine of the Gospel is to be carried, and from which it is to be poured.

Which means, you see, that you will occasionally get some rather wonderful stuff from a rather dismal pot. Or, as Harrell Beck might have said: "Even wormy dates can nourish." The tragedy at Christ Church Cranbrook, is not so much that Almas Thorpe is gone.  He probably should be (for the time being).  But the greater tragedy, in the wake of his departure, is that people will discount all the good and wonderful stuff he ever did, as if he had never done any.  His fall from grace should not obliterate the message of grace.  Neither should it obliterate the fact that (from everything that I've heard) he certainly preached it admirably.... administered it capably.... and distributed it widely to some of God's poorer, hungrier and more easily forgettable children. And, in that grace, one can only hope that Almas Thorpe may live to do all of the above again.

Earthen vessels. Clay pots. Wormy dates. Why is it that God has chosen to entrust the store to the likes of us?

There is an old legend (also passed on to me by Harrell Beck) that has Jesus meeting an angel on the front porch of heaven, after His work on earth was done. It is said that their conversation went something like this.

Angel: 'We've missed you. Where have you been?"

Jesus: "I've been to earth."

Angel: "Were you gone long?"

Jesus: "About thirty years, give or take a couple."

Angel: "That's not very long.

Jesus: "I suppose you could say that I died rather young."

Angel: "How did you die?"

Jesus: "Martyrdom.... by crucifixion."

Angel: "Oh, you must have had a great influence."

Jesus: "I ended up with eleven friends."

Angel: "How, then, will your work continue?"

Jesus: "I left it in the hands of my friends."

Angel: "And if they fail?"

Jesus:" I have no other plans."

Thirty Eight Years On the Verge 9/12/1993

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 5:1-9

Most intelligent people, upon reading the New Testament, seem able to agree (in principle) that Jesus healed people. What these same people seem unable to agree upon is how (in practice) he did it. That's because his healings followed no consistent script and, more often than not, violated commonly-held expectations.

Keeping that in mind, let your imagination wander long enough to consider a conversation involving three men, each healed by Jesus of blindness. Quite by chance, they encounter each other in a video store. As people who have had marvelous experiences are apt to do, they begin to share their good news. The first man says: "I used to be blind, but Jesus healed me." The second responds: "The exact same thing happened to me." And the third man chimes in: "Small world, isn't it?" Then they begin to analyze their experiences more carefully.

The first man says: "I know how he does it. When he reaches out to touch your eyes, a power surge from his fingers fuses your optic nerve." The second man says: "What are you talking about? Jesus doesn't touch your eyes. He just speaks. He says the magic words, 'Be healed,' and that's when it happens." The first man counters: "Yes, he may say some magic words, but he has to be touching your eyes when he says them." The second retorts: "Nonsense! Jesus isn't into all that touchy-feely stuff. He just speaks."  Which leads the first man to shout:  "Well, I was there. I ought to know."

Finally the third man enters the debate, saying: "You guys have both got it wrong. What Jesus really does is spit on the ground. Then he makes little mud pies and presses the goo on your eyeballs." The first man glares back: 'That's disgusting. Jesus would never do that. He just touches you with a clean hand." "No," screams the second. "He just speaks. No touching. No spitting. No goo. No nothing."

So they all go off in separate directions and form their own churches. The first man's church holds hands and touches a lot. The second man's church has long sermons and relies heavily on the spoken word. I'm afraid to try the third man's church. Their sacraments might be a little weird.

But the point should be clear. When you spend all of your time arguing about method, you tend to lose sight of the miracle. And although you are no longer technically blind, you still don't see things very clearly.  No.... not very clearly at all.

Having said that, I invite you to move to another healing of Jesus which similarly divided the house when he first performed it. This is my all-time favorite healing story. It is very nearly my all-time favorite gospel story. Understanding it, however, requires that we switch diseases. No longer are we dealing with a blind guy, but a lame guy.  And not just any lame guy.  We're dealing with a guy who has made a career out of lameness.  Thirty eight years he's been lying there on his mat, adjacent to the infamous pool at Bethzatha.  I'd call thirty eight years a career, wouldn't you? Two more years and he can retire. Maybe he'll even earn a gold watch from the towel attendant. Think of it. Thirty eight years living the invalid life. Thirty eight years living the in-valid life. Thirty eight years on the verge of wholeness....well-ness....greatness.  And don't tell me I'm being hard on him.  I've got good authority for being hard on him. Jesus is hard on him. But I'm getting ahead of my story.  More on that, momentarily.

Let's put things in context. What is our thirty-eight- year sufferer doing by the pool? Well, let me tell you. This pool comes equipped with a legend.  A healing legend. 'Tis said that once a day, every day, the waters get turbulent. They bubble right up. Could be an underground spring. Probably is. But people hereabouts prefer a different explanation. They say that the waters wouldn't behave like that, were it not for an angel of healing suddenly entering them.  And then, because one unprovable theory deserves another, they say that whoever enters the waters first (following the onset of the turbulence) will be healed of whatever ails them. But you have to be first.  One healing per troubling. No more. No less. Every time I think of it, the beauty of the picture is ruined when I consider the pushing and shoving that must take place among those vying to be first. Which is why someone has to help the more un-able of the dis-abled. After all, isn't this the complaint of the lame man? Listen to what he says to Jesus: "You want to know the crux of my problem? I have no one to put me in the pool when the waters are troubled. And while I am still on the way, someone gets there before me." What the lame man appears to want from Jesus is help with a transportation problem. But Jesus doesn't fall into that trap. And neither should we. Before we get caught up in the mechanics of how to get the patient to the pool more quickly, perhaps we should question the underlying assumption that the pool is necessarily the best, or only, place to find healing.

I have long contended that the pool is important to the story, not for what it does, but for where it is. And where is it?  Over there.... that's where it is.  It is somewhere else. Somewhere where I am not. I am here. The pool is there. If only I could get to where the pool is. Then things would be better. But I can't "be better" here.  And I can't get from here to there. And every time I try, somebody beats me out.

My profession is full of clergy who are convinced that somewhere there are great churches.... significant churches.... good paying churches, filled with responsive people.... churches where ministry is a joy to perform and every sermon is critically acclaimed.... churches where every invitation produces dramatic conversions and every prophetic suggestion produces behavioral changes.... churches where finance campaigns are supported by tithers and where surrounding neighborhoods swell with potential shakers and movers, just begging to be shaken and moved.

These churches represent "the pool" in my business.  And all kinds of clergy quietly pull their district superintendents aside, or attempt to catch the bishop's ear, just long enough to say:

You want to see what I can do? Put me in the pool. Send me to that church. Nobody can do ministry in this place where I've been stuck.  Sure I'm limping now, but this is a lame church. What's more, this church cripples everybody who comes to it. You want valid ministry? Put me over there. I can only be in-valid here.

In fact, a lot of my colleagues are convinced that Birmingham First is one of the "pool churches." Others include Midland,  Nardin Park and Rochester St. Pauls. But they can't get to the "pool." Because someone else beat them to it.... with help, they figure. Somebody is already there and shows no sign of leaving. So whenever clergy get together, they talk about the likelihood of such "pools" becoming "vacant" again.

Everybody waits for the troubling of the waters to produce an opening. And that's all right, assuming that it represents nothing more than an exercise in parlor room politics. But when it is offered as an excuse for ineffective ministry, it represents a sickness that no change in pools can cure.

There is a fundamental danger in assuming that health can't happen where I am.... that happiness can't come where I am.... that a life of significance can't be lived where I am.... that joy can't bubble up where I am.... that I am stuck here, while the pool of "good stuff" is over there, with a different job or a different mob, in a different house with a different spouse.

A teenager sits with a group of her friends in a Big Boy, absentmindedly dipping french fries into a pool of ketchup.  She is only half tuned into the Friday night conversation of her friends because she is convinced that somewhere else, in a very similar restaurant, eating some very similar french fries, is the "in crowd" of girls.  These are the girls who lead the cheers and date the players. These are the girls around whom it all swirls and for whom it all happens. The "pool" is that other restaurant. This is just "me and my friends" hanging out at Big Boy's.

A wife and mother, still young and attractive, but much less confident about it than she used to be, fights off drowsiness in an upstairs bedroom on a Monday night. Her goal is to stay awake long enough to finish one more chapter in her Danielle Steele novel, the chapter where it appears that the hero will (at long last) crush the heroine into his arms and set her body afire with searching and passionate kisses. Meanwhile, her husband sits one floor below in the family room, shouting: "Go 49ers! Go 49ers!" The "pool" is wherever it is that Danielle Steele is taking her. Downstairs is just "my husband" and Monday night football.

Notice the common thread that runs through both of these laments. I am here. Health is over there. I can't get from here to there. And even if I can, somebody will probably beat me to it. All of which is strangely reminiscent of Baudelaire's great line: "Most of us see life as a hospital and mistakenly assume that our condition would dramatically improve if someone would move us to a different bed."

Many of you already know of my affection for the Traverse City region of our state. In fact, many of you share it. One day I was talking about that with the minister who preaches at Central United Methodist Church in Traverse City. (They actually pay him for that.) But he was telling me that the job is not entirely what I would imagine it to be. Apparently the counseling load gets pretty heavy. That's because people come up there, thinking that they are plunging head first into paradise. Except (for many of them) it's not. Not because the bay isn't beautiful. It is. Not because the people aren't friendly. They are. But because no place can make you happy if you don't bring the basic ingredients for happiness with you, from wherever it was you came. And when people, dragging the wrong kind of baggage, find they can't even get it together in Traverse City, they feel that either paradise has failed.... or they have.... with either realization being equally depressing.

Which is why (to all you would-be pool and paradise seekers) Jesus bristles: "Do you want to be healed?" One supposes that question probably angered the lame man, leading him to snap back in frustration: "Why in the world do you think I've been lying here for 38 years?" To which the only conceivable comeback would have been: "Well, why have you been lying here for 38 years?"

My friends, do you want to be well?  Healing begins with the answer to that question.  Healing does not begin with the troubling of the waters and the rush to the pool. The dramatic movement of the story does not move from question to pool. The dramatic movement of the story moves from question ("Do you want to be healed?") to command (iThen take up your bed and walk"). The implication is that any place can be a healing place, any time can be a healing time, and that a crucial component of any healing experience is that movement when the invalids of the world cultivate a desire to be valid where they are. The grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence. The grass is greener where it is watered.

Now I realize that this sounds dangerously like a gospel of self- improvement. ("Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again.") And if that's all it is, who needs Jesus?  Well, for starters, the man in the story needed Jesus. He thought he needed Jesus to throw him in the pool. What he really needed was for Jesus to frame the right question, suggest a new possibility, and then challenge him to accept it.  I sometimes wonder if we haven't overpreached Jesus the rescuer and underpreached Jesus the midwife.  What's the difference between rescuer and midwife?  Think of it this way. The rescuer pulls us out of something.  The midwife pulls something out of us.

Robert Fulghum reports a conversation with a colleague who was complaining that he had the same dam stuff in his lunch bag, day after boring day. "So who packs your lunch?" Bob asked. "I do," replied his friend. How do you save such a man? Surely not by taking him to a restaurant.

There is a lot of health within us that literally begs for someone to call it out of us. And surely one of the roles of Jesus is to say to some of us (all of the time) and to all of us (some of the time), that this is a good time and here is a good place, therefore, why not get up and get on with it.

In rare moments of spiritual sobriety this summer, I have occasionally found myself worrying about this church. I worry that we will get too lazy lying on our mat, and forget how to walk. I worry that it will become tempting to assume that our moment was yesterday.... or tomorrow.  I worry that we will get sucked into believing that greatness will only come to us.... or come back to us.... once the long-range plan is activated.... once the building is enlarged.... once the air conditioning is fixed.... once the staff is made larger.... smaller.... better....or is reconfigured (take your pick).... once the times are more conducive.... the tax laws more favorable.... or a couple of benevolent millionaires suddenly show up in our midst.  My friends, eleven weeks here haven't taught me a lot. But eleven weeks have been enough to teach me that there is no place better than ours.... there is no moment riper than this....and there are no people more valid than we.

Recall, as we close, the parable about the football game between the little animals and the big animals. The big animals were winning by a large margin. This should come as no surprise, given the fact that football is a game in which big animals have a decided advantage. After the halftime break, the big animals took the field again. On the first play they sent the elephant up the middle. Surprise of surprises, he was tackled at the line of scrimmage. So they sent the rhinoceros around the right end. He, too, was tackled at the line of scrimmage. Finally they called a power sweep to the left, giving the ball to the hippopotamus. When the dust settled, he was lying at the bottom of the pile at the line of scrimmage. For the first time in the game, the big animals were forced to punt and the little animals had the ball.

The quarterback, a squirrel, said in the huddle: "Before I call the first play, I want to know who was able to tackle the elephant coming up the middle." The centipede raised his hand and said: "I got the elephant" Then the quarterback asked: "And who got the rhinoceros coming around right end?" The centipede said: "I got the rhino."  So the squirrel asked: "Well, who was it that stopped the power sweep by tripping the hippo coming around the left side?" And again the centipede raised a hand. "Well," said the squirrel, "All I want to know is, where were you during the first half?" To which the centipede replied: "I was tying my shoes."

Moral of story: There is a time to prepare and a time to get in the game. Jesus never asked us to flatten a rhino. He did (however) command us to get out of bed.