A Chainsaw for Christmas 12/5/1993

William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

·         Slash through bureaucratic red tape

·         Whack away at institutional underbrush

·         Cut the legs out from under my opposition

·         Clear paths, open logjams, trim dead wood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Two Faces of Advent 12/12/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter 

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Isaiah 40:1-5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"PRONTO VIENE, JESU CHRISTO"

Even so Lord, quickly come.

Two Cheers For Christmas Craziness 12/19/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 1:1-5,10-16

One of the charges made against religious people concerns the fact that they do not always practice what they preach. This is probably said about Christians more often than other religious people, not because Christians practice the faith with standards that are so abysmally low, but because Christians preach the faith with standards that are so abnormally high. So let's be honest. Why deny the indictment. We should put more effort into practicing what we preach. And we don't. This much needs to be said frequently and in the posture of honest confession.

But there is something else that needs to be said. And I have appointed myself to say it this morning. Sometimes we Christians need to preach what we practice. You heard me correctly. We ought to preach what we practice. For there are times when what we do with our lives speaks a more eloquent and interesting word than what we preach with our lips.

Consider Christmas preaching. What is the most commonly preached Christmas theme which regularly resonates across the land? It is nothing less than the injunction to "keep Christ in Christmas." It is frequently suggested that in our frenzied and frantic attempts to fill the holiday with good things, we have somehow forgotten Jesus. I really believe that if I had a quarter for every sermonic suggestion that the real meaning of Christmas has been perverted, forgotten, lost, stolen, sentimentalized, secularized, or otherwise misappropriated, I would be wealthy enough to retire. Somehow, goes the argument, there lies a babe in a manger who is buried beneath an avalanche of presents, lost in a forest of cards, surrounded by a swarm of party-goers, and floating on a rising tide of egg nog.... a child whose cries cannot be heard over the din of twelve drummers drumming and eleven cash registers ringing (fueled by the promise of a pre-Christmas, 30% off sale on five gold rings).

Let us conclude that much of this is true. Let us further admit that there are some extremely crude and very un-Christ-like excesses of celebrating the season. High on my list of offenders are the video game makers who figure that the birthday of the Prince of Peace is a wonderful reason to create an insatiable demand for electronic simulations of brutal murders and domestic violence. A good friend of mine, trying to be a "with it" grandmother, received (over the telephone) the Christmas wish list of her 9 year old grandson. She then purchased the video game that was on the top of his list, only to find it highlighted (on the 11:00 news) as being the most violent of this year's offerings. So she played it for her own edification, and then returned it for a gift more grandmotherly in nature. Which is probably why that same grandson will be receiving underwear and socks this Christmas morning.

And who can absolve the publishers of the monthly skin magazines, who strategically drape a garland of greenery over the shoulders of an otherwise-unclad young lady, put her picture on the cover, double the number of pages, double the price it takes to buy them, and then have the audacity to call the whole thing "the Christmas issue." And not far behind these folk are the frenzied revelers of December, for whom a Christmas party represents a wonderful opportunity to get both sentimental and sloshed..., two things which happen pretty much simultaneously, as I recall.

Each of you can add to the list of horrors in your own way. I'll not belabor the point. All over America, my clergy colleagues are doing it for me. Clearly, what passes as Christmas sometimes bears little resemblance to the spirit of the One whose birthday it really is. But having said that, I find myself becoming mildly irritated every time I hear someone begin to wax eloquently about "putting Christ back into Christmas."  Kindly indulge me as I explore my irritation publicly.

I begin by wondering what might constitute a "proper" Christmas. Just what is it that we are supposed to do....we who are charged with putting Christ back where He belongs? What would satisfy us? Would there be a noticeable increase in spirituality, were we to eliminate all presents and parties, all cards and carol sings, all office observances and charity appeals? What if we were to minimize the importance of everything seasonal that did not revolve around the church? Would we be any richer for it? What if we were to spend the last three weeks of Advent in spiritual retreat or book air passage to the Holy Land? Would Christ be any nearer or dearer as a result? Possibly.... but certainly not automatically.

My wondering, wandering mind rolls on. Even if we preachers know the proper things to do (the better to keep Christ in Christmas), why don't we do them? I get as many cards from clergy as from anybody else. Preachers, when last I looked, tend to party as much as anybody else. And I know of no study suggesting that clergy buy fewer presents than anybody else. Last Monday evening we had our District Ministers Christmas party, which differed from the average Christmas party only in the fact that nobody had too much to drink (nobody had anything to drink). But we all dressed to the nines, ate more than we really needed, and individually "threw in" on a gift for the boss. And there have been other minister's Christmas parties (in past years) where Santa, himself, put in an appearance.

What's more, if schedules are over-busied at Christmas, it would be my guess that preachers are among the primary culprits in making them so. I look at my own life. I have about as much to complain about as anyone (where seasonal excess is concerned). Yet I have noticed that I am not terribly inclined to give much of it up. Every year I seem to send more cards, even as I wish there were more time to write personal notes within them. And every year I enjoy as many dinners, brunches, open houses, and party-type gatherings as I can make room for, even as I realize that there are others I would love to see, if only additional evenings could be found. Here it is five days before Christmas, and I just bought a tree yesterday. Hopefully I will have time to set it up today (prior to the pageant) and trim it tomorrow. But I lament the fact that there is no time to go out in the woods and cut one down (and no chain saw with which to do the cutting).

Only once, in twenty-five years, have I made it to J. P. McCarthy's carol sing. Only once have I heard the symphony perform the Messiah. And I have yet to see the Nutcracker ballet. But I wish that I could do it all.... and more.

So it all begins to come clear to me. Many of us who preach one kind of Christmas, live quite another kind of Christmas. And maybe....just maybethe time has come to listen to our lives rather than our sermons. Hence, my suggestion that we preach what we practice. In that spirit, then, let me dare to suggest that a worldly Christmas is not only permissible, but may have about it things that are both biblically and personally desirable.

I would begin by urging us to take a more careful look at some of the things we call "worldly." Look at some of the neat things that happen at Christmas time. I see sanctuaries filled with more strangers than at any other time of the year. I see more money being expended by the haves on behalf of the have-nots than in the 11 other months combined. I see men, some of them rather old and feeble, standing on cold street corners selling newspapers.  I see women who darned their last sock twenty-five years ago, sewing dresses for little girls. I see our chapel filled with bags of gifts for the children of prisoners and realize that many of our people must have shopped their hearts out in the past few days. I also see cease fires on battlefields and parties in nursing homes, even as I hear sacred music being performed in secular concert halls and carols from our hymnal being played in our local shopping malls. I see better television programs than are available any other time of the year. I see people going out of their way to be a little kinder, a little more tolerant, and a little less abrasive than normal. I see good service being remembered and rewarded. And I see twinkling lights in people's bushes, nativity scenes in people's yards, and plastic wise men (astride camels) on the front lawns of corporate headquarters.

Push the point even further. For every card that is sent, I see people trying (ever so fleetingly) to reach out and re-connect themselves with others. It is as if they are saying: "Look, we may not see each other as much as I would like, but I want you to know that I remember and treasure the time we once shared together.... and that (even after all these years) it continues to mean much to me now."

For every party and gathering of friends, I see an attempt to acknowledge that this world can often be very lonely, very cold, and very cruel. Therefore, in this season of the year when we celebrate the true center of fellowship which is Christ, why shouldn't we gather with those precious and cherished people of our lives, the better to blow fresh fire upon the coals of the heart.

And for every gift begrudgingly given "because we got one from them last year," I see people spending hours looking for a gift that will say far more than its price tag. In fact, the Santa Claus tradition, itself, comes to us as the result of charitable acts first performed by a Sixth-century Russian cleric, Bishop Nicholas of Myra. It seems that the good bishop combined an impulsive nature and a charitable disposition into a tradition of leaving anonymous gifts on the doorsteps of his most needy parishioners, each Christmas Eve after midnight.

But stretch the point further still. Look at the worldliness of the Christmas story itself. One wonders where the church gets permission to be so territorial about Christmas. Whoever said that Christ was the sole province of the church? Christ belongs to the world. He did not come to save the church. He came to save the world. And I suppose that says something about what constitutes a fitting location for the Jesus story and its retelling.

For several years, during the decade of the eighties, I delivered an annual Christmas message in the basement of a bar. The bar was the Dakota Inn, and its basement was the regular meeting place for the North Woodward Avenue Lions Club. My favorite undertaker had retained his membership in that club from the years in which he had conducted funerals out of Highland Park. Somehow, it fell to him to find someone to give the annual Christmas talk. And I was that "someone." One year, when I was speaking, I could hear a party going on upstairs. There was a piano, to which people were singing with obvious relish. I was mildly annoyed until I recognized the tune. For I was hearing the unmistakable strains of "We Three Kings of Orient Are," which I shall sing with Dick Kopple and Bill Ives this very afternoon.... not in the basement of the Dakota Inn....but in our lovely sanctuary.

And one year, not so long ago, I preached a Christmas sermon in the ladies' shoe department at Crowley’s. The occasion was a gathering of the employees, who had come together at 7:30 in the morning on the heaviest shopping day of the year. And why had I come? Because they asked me to. And once I got used to preaching in a room full of ladies' shoes, it didn't seem the least bit strange. No, it didn't seem the least bit strange at all.

And then there was the Sunday, three years ago, when I joined with a Catholic priest (among others) celebrating an Advent liturgy for some street people....around a bonfire....in an oil drum....on a vacant lot....in the Cass Corridor. But that's such a rich story that I need to save it for another day. All I know is that when I shared a Christmas message last Friday morning at Kirk in the Hills, the setting didn't seem any more appropriate (for all of its elegance) than the basement of the Dakota Inn or a vacant lot in the Cass Corridor.

Put Christ back into Christmas? What I want to know is, how in the world are we going to keep Him out. Part of the secret of this wonderful saga of the stable of Bethlehem rests in the fact that it is so wonderfully worldly in the first place. The Jesuit priest, Andrew Greeley (whose ability to understand the power of a good story is probably enhanced by his ability to write one), pens these words:

The secret of the story is this. Who could have thought that the image of a man, a woman, and a child in a cave, with animals and shepherds hovering in the background, could have possibly possessed any religious significance whatsoever?

The story survives, not because of its inherent religiosity, but because it is so incredibly ordinary.... and therefore, universal.... that its message of hope and love cannot help but be understood, whether or not one comes to it with a mind previously schooled in the things of faith.

It is a worldly story to which the world responds in a worldly way. And if the world's response to the story be slightly extravagant, can anything (Greeley asks) be more extravagant than the love which God spilled upon the world in Jesus? We had always suspected that God might be good, and that God might even love us. But the surprise of the gospel (in its day, and ours) was that nobody could comprehend the fact that God could love us this much. Edmund Steimle, the beloved Lutheran from New York, suggests the very same thing, when he writes:

The only way to respond to such divine extravagance is to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, buy an electric train for your first-born, three-month-old, boy-child, and more perfume than you can possibly afford for your wife.... even as you spread flowering pot-plants all over the sanctuary, put up trees in outlandish places, and fill the streets with music.

If that sounds a little bit crazy, I suppose it is. But maybe we need to rethink the definition of the word "crazy." One afternoon, a very disturbed ward of patients in the state mental hospital was startled by a loud noise. Rushing to the windows, the patients saw that a middle-aged man, while driving on the street below, had suffered a blow out. Collectively, the patients began to laugh at him, combining ridicule with gibberish. The driver became visibly nervous. In his anxiety to replace the blown-out tire with the spare, he accidentally kicked the hubcap into which he had placed the wheel nuts. They all went rolling down the drain in the pavement. In great consternation, the man stood up, cursed twice and threw his arms heavenward in despair. The gibberish stopped. At which point the most violent patient on the ward (who had scarcely uttered an intelligent word in months) shouted: 'Take one nut from each of the other three wheels, put them on the spare, and drive carefully to the nearest gas station." The driver looked startled.... and then followed the suggestion. But before driving away, he waved his thanks in the general direction of the anonymous word of advice. Whereupon the violent man shouted: "Just because we're crazy, doesn't mean we're stupid."

My friends, it is my suspicion that in this crazy, frantic, frenetic celebration we call Christmas, we are far from stupid. We know what it means and where it's at. We know what Christ means and where He's at. He is for us. He is among us. And that is a rather crazy and amazing thing in itself.

"Let's have a sensible Christmas," the lady said to me. To which I said: "My God, lady, why in the world would you want to do that?"

A Cello for Jesus 12/24/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Four Sundays spent. Four candies lit. Four calling birds nested in one never-to-be-forgotten pear tree. And now.... at last.... it all comes down to this.

There is a kind of hush all over the world tonight. Things are quiet now. Almost all of the stores are closed, and almost all of the churches are open.... which should count for something. Nothing much that is newsworthy will happen tonight. Very few guns will be fired. Very few political decisions will be made. No one will hold a press conference, or hold up a party store (one hopes). Neither will anyone fire a puck, kick a pigskin, or shoot a basketball in anger.  It will be a night to deeply cherish those you are with, and dearly miss those you are not with. For Christmas Eve is one of those rare and precious times when the giant spinning wheel of the world stops on "Love," and stays there.  All this, because God once brought something quite unexpected.... and more than a little bit surprising.... to a people who were expecting anything but.

And nobody understands the incongruity of that appearance better than the people of one particular neighborhood in Sarajevo, that war-devastated city in the midst of the nation we used to call Yugoslavia. Strange things have happened there, too. But none so strange as the appearance of the man they call "The Cellist."  But before I tell you anymore about him, let me retreat a step or two, the better to set a proper stage for his story.

Sarajevo, you know. Not because it is a part of the nation that once sent "your people" to America.... although it sent mine. Not because it gave the world a brilliant, and extremely photogenic, Winter Olympics....which, not all that many years ago, it did. And not because you have ever traveled there, skied there, or climbed the beautiful mountains there....  because, as places to go, it's hardly ever been on the beaten track.

Instead, you know Sarajevo because they are fighting a war there... .as wars used to be fought.... hand to hand....house to house....street to street....in the most brutal manner imaginable. In fact, the carnage is so unspeakable that Sarajevo is in the process of writing for the world an entirely new primer on violence. The conflict in Sarajevo is called a "civil war".... an oxymoron, if ever there was one. The conflict is also called "a religious and ethnic war." But the lines become increasingly blurred. At one time or another, everyone in the city becomesthe enemy of someone else in the city. Men…. women.... children.... babies.... grandparents.... young and old.... strong and weak.... Muslim and Christian....Serb, Croat, and Bosnian.... none are exempt. And none are safe. Some kill. Some die. And there are probably others who wish they could die. This is Sarajevo.

Enter, one Vedran Smallovic. See him dressed in formal evening clothes.... sitting in a cafe chair.... in the middle of a street... directly in front of a bakery. Weeks earlier, in front of that same bakery, a mortar barrage landed in the middle of a bread line, killing twenty two hungry people. That's where Vedran Smallovic sits. But it is not enough to simply look at him. You need to hear him. For he is playing a cello in the middle of the street Which he does for twenty two days, braving sniper and artillery fire to play Albinoni's profoundly moving "Adagio In G Minor."

Since he is a member of the Sarajevo Opera Orchestra, he probably knows that this particular "Adagio" was reconstructed from a manuscript fragment found in the ruins of Dresden after World War II. The music somehow survived the firebombing, then. One can only hope that it will survive the firebombing now.

In time, the street corner where Vedran Smailovic plays becomes something of a local shrine. People go out of their way to pass by there.... take friends there.... kiss lovers there. Some lay flowers where his chair and cello once stood. I suppose that flowers and music have always been ways of expressing those hopes which never die.

And then his story (and song) take wings. His picture, depicting him leaning over his cello, appears in an issue of the New York Times Magazine. An artist in Seattle sees it. Her name is Beliz Brother (real person, real name). She promptly organizes twenty two cellists.... to play in twenty two public places.... for twenty two days.... all over Seattle. On the final day, all twenty two play together (in front of a store window displaying twenty two burned out bread pans.... twenty two loaves of bread.... and twenty two roses).

In time, others pick up the song in other cities. And on the twentieth day of January last, twenty two cellists play In Washington, D.C. as Bill Clinton is formerly sworn into office.

The man who tells Vedran's story writes

Is this man crazy? Maybe. Is his gesture futile? In a conventional sense, of course. What madness to go out alone in the streets of war with but a wooden box and a hair-strung bow. But speaking softly with his cello (one note at a time), he does the only thing he knows how to do, making like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, calling out the rats that sometimes infest the human spirit.

Somehow, when I read that story last August, I knew that I would share it with you Christmas Eve. I didn't know whether Vedran Smallovic would approve.... or if he is even a Christian. But his is a Christmas story. For his cello, if it does nothing else, serves up a counterpoint to the agonizing madness of the world, and offers a harbinger of hope, that songs of the spirit cannot be silenced by gunfire, nor can beauty be buried in the ruins and rubble of this world's lunacy.

And what, my friends, is the promise of this very night, if not that one? For God, Himself, once surprised the world in a most unorthodox way.... and in a most unexpected place.... with a gift that became a counterpoint to that world's madness. Bethlehem has seldom been without its own brand of strife. When our Business Administrator, Bertha Fuqua, was there two weeks ago, she almost didn't get to Manger Square and the Grotto of the Holy Nativity, because of another uprising between the Israelis who patrol there, and the Palestinians who live there. For Bethlehem is a West Bank town, and you have no need to look further (for what that means) than the front page of this morning's Free Press.

Yet what Veciran Smailovic could never have known (as he played in front of the ruins of a bombed-out bakery in Sarajevo) is that the very word "Bethlehem" means (quite literally) "House of Bread," with the implication that the child who appeared there once (accompanied by the music of an angelic chorus and one small drum) would be capable of satisfying the hunger of bread-seekers everywhere, including those who (from much of the world) receive nothing but a stone.

One cellist in Sarajevo is not enough (of course), unless we also sing the song that is played there. Just as one baby in Bethlehem may not be enough, unless we also pass the love that is laid there. Christmas may be a counterpoint to much of the world's madness. But somebody needs to preach that truth.... or play it.... in places as diverse (this night) as Sarajevo and Seattle, and in high schools as diverse (this night) as Chadsey and Chelsea. "Comfort ye.... comfort ye my people," says God through the prophet. "And cry unto her that her warfare is ended." All of which is good news, you see. Unless there is someone at whom you are presently sniping.... or a "madness" where you live that needs to be countered. God comes to us, this night, as if to say: "You know, it doesn't really have to be this way. And you don't really have to be this way." My friends, when we stop believing this, the music will surely die, and Christ will come to the earth in December, no more.

Christmas Eve, 1993. Strangely different, for me, this year.  But challengingly so. New places. New faces. My only sister gone, from this life, permanently. My two children gone, from this house, Increasingly. The nest is largely empty.

But the nest is also feathered.... with more memories than regrets.... with more friends than rooms.... with kids who are proving to be as fascinating as adults as they were as children.... and with a wonderful woman who fills it (and me) with love. Late last night, in this very nest-like sanctuary, several of us were meeting over mechanics. With Chris and Doris Hall, Dick Kopple and Steve Langley, it was a time for moving pianos, resetting furniture and adjusting lights. Where would I stand? When would I move? Where would I go? All of these things had to do with my "fitting in".... here.... tonight.

Then later last night, with a log on the fire in the family room, came the realization (to Kris and myself) that fitting in was not really something that either of us had to achieve, so much as something that many of you have already made possible. For, like all good things, love has come to us as a gift.... more than either of us has really earned or deserved. And about the only thing we can say to our credit is that, whenever it has come, we have had enough good sense to open the door and let it in.

It is my prayer that love may come to you and yours, as it has to me and mine…. And that you will know what to do with it when it does.  Merry Christmas.  And may God bless you…. everyone.