Who Wants to Work? 8/30/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Genesis 3:17-19, Genesis 1:28-2:3, Proverbs 22:29

Earlier this summer, while hitting a little white ball around a great green field with Jay Hook, I fell into conversation with another Methodist member of the foursome….a young fellow who hails from Pensacola, Florida. My friend, Henry Roberts, preaches at First Methodist in Pensacola, so you can imagine my delight in finding that Henry was my golfing partner’s preacher.

This fellow got to talking about his five-year-old son and something that happened at this year’s Vacation Bible School. Apparently, each child was to bring a certain amount of money each day for poor people in Africa. So the boy’s mother gave him a dollar each morning to contribute to the offering. At the end of the week….while cleaning out her son’s pockets before washing his pants….she extracted five dollar bills, wadded up amongst the trivia little boys tend to carry. Upon being confronted, he admitted that these were the same dollars that were supposed to go to the poor people. But when asked why he didn’t put them in the basket, he replied: “If they need money so badly, let them work for it like my daddy does.”

I suppose that might be called “a teachable moment.” Which is what it became. And his father thinks….or at least hopes….that his son now has a broader view of mission, and a more charitable view of need, than before their conversation took place. But the boy did not come up with that idea all by himself. He was reflecting a cultural assumption (or question) that is not all that uncommon….and not entirely wrong.

Most of you know that one of the things at my disposal as your pastor is a small discretionary fund. I have had one in each of the churches I have served. It is not available to me personally. It is only available to me pastorally. I don’t suppose that this surprises you….although several things about it might surprise you. The number of people who need to draw upon it (both internally and externally) might surprise you. The stories told by many of the “street people” who come through the door might surprise you. And the number of people who regularly work “the church circuit” might surprise you.

And you might also be surprised by the number of able-bodied young men who come by. They are always in a bad way, economically. But they always have a fresh pack of cigarettes in their pocket….along with a Methodist somewhere in their family….often a Methodist preacher (back home, somewhere). And most of these able-bodied men claim that they are willing to do a little work in return for whatever cash I might give them (“Got any odd jobs, Reverend? I can do most anything.”).

In the old days, I never had any “odd jobs.” But then I got smarter. I began keeping a few “odd job” ideas in mind, the better to test the seriousness of such requests. In a previous church, we always had a huge pile of wood chips on the back forty. So I would point out the pile….point out the shovel….point out the wheelbarrow…. point out a section of the building in need of wood chip cover….and then propose a decent hourly wage. And with God as my witness, I am here to tell you that not one single wood chip was ever moved by any of those seekers after cash. There was always some reason they wanted to do it, but couldn’t. At least right then. But they’d certainly come back tomorrow….if I paid them today. A few of the excuses I believed. Most I disregarded. But I was left to conclude that the major issue for a number of these folk was that “work was simply not their thing.”

A few years ago, I did a wedding with Father Bill Cunningham of Focus Hope. All of us remember Bill as a delightful Irish priest. I know I enjoyed every occasion that brought the two of us together. At this particular wedding, we both attended the reception. At that time, Bill launched an animated defense of one of his favorite themes, job training programs. As you know, most of his effort at Focus Hope moved in this direction, because (as Bill put it):

It’s a new ballgame out there. We’re seeing something we’ve never seen before. There are parts of the city that more closely resemble a Third World country than an American city. One of the symptoms is that we are seeing families now into a third generation of permanent joblessness. And it is not primarily a question of jobs being available. It’s a question of knowing the first thing about how to get one….do one….keep one….or even want one.

But, let me hasten to add, that this creeping malaise in the “work ethic” is not limited to people south of Eight Mile Road, or to those on the low end of the hourly wage scale. In a recent conversation with a high-level managerial type, he said: “I just can’t abide, let alone understand, the management people who work for me who simply put in their hours, do half the job of which they’re capable, and then act as if they are doing me and the company a colossal favor.” To which a recent United Methodist District Superintendent added: “One of the things that surprised me in this job was that when a church became dissatisfied with its preacher, it seldom had anything to do with something he or she did, but rather with the list of tasks that he or she didn’t do.”

Now it strikes me as odd that, in a world where there are many who work too little, there are others who work too much. There are couch potatoes. And there are workaholics. There are people who don’t know the first thing about work. And there are people who don’t know that there is anything else besides work. Both are diseases. And both are spiritual.

I have previously addressed myself to the over-workers of the world, for they are the people I know best. Notice that while I called them “over-workers,” I did not call them “over-worked.” For to say that we are over-worked is to say that we are victims. And to say that we are victims, is to say that we are without choice. And to say that we are without choice is not only the first step on the road to despair….but is also patently ridiculous. But having said that before, I will refrain from saying it again. Besides, I have very little stomach for addressing my own sins.

I am concerned with those who have seemingly chosen shortcuts on the way to a work ethic. Not long ago, I got in a very heated argument with a colleague about a particular “Jobs Corp” program for youth. Now, mind you, I have probably supported more social betterment programs proposed by politicians, than anybody here in this room. But suddenly I found myself rocked back on my heels. For my colleague was arguing that unemployed youth shouldn’t be expected to sign up for make-work labor, unless it provided a certain level of “meaning.” To which he added: “What kind of meaningful work is it to cut grass along the freeway?”

I suppose he struck a nerve, given that I once fantasized that I might like to spend a summer mowing grass along the freeway. Which, I acknowledge, might get monotonous. But the last time I looked, grass only grows out-of-doors….in warm weather. And, if nothing else, such a job would teach you how to get to work on time….stay the full day….and run a piece of mechanical equipment. And every grass cutting crew has got to have a section leader….a foreman….a truck driver….or someone to do repairs on the mower. Meaning that, in time, that person could be you….as much as it could be anybody.

Besides, “meaning” is a funny thing. Is “meaning” a byproduct of the job? Or is “meaning” something you bring to the job? Clearly, some jobs are likely to be more meaningful than others. I doubt that assembly line work is terribly meaningful. I think that my job is extremely meaningful. But there are people who do my job and hate it. Finding “meaning” means just what it says….finding it. Which implies a search….and a searcher. So there is always a subjective element present, which is a fancy way of saying that “meaning” is never solely in the job’s description….or in the job’s compensation (although I am not arguing in favor of dull jobs….or low paying ones).

But let me tip my hat, right now, by making the radical suggestion that work is its own meaning (quite apart from the kind of work it is, and the pay that comes from doing it). Dorothee Soelle….a remarkable German theologian….contends that there are two things we must master on the way to maturity. We must learn to work. And we must learn to love. In other words, we must master the issue of industry. And we must master the issue of intimacy. She even goes on to suggest that the truly mature person both loves to work and works at love.

She is right. As well she should be. For she is borrowing from two rather unique sources…. Sigmund Freud and the Bible. But let’s leave Freud alone and proceed to the Bible.

Strangely enough, the oldest word in the Bible (concerning work) is a negative word. It dates from 950 BC and the earlier of the Bible’s two creation narratives. I’m talking about Genesis 2. That’s the story that has God walking around in the garden, hollowing out rivers, fashioning Adam from a dustball and Eve from Adam’s rib. And this very early stratum of stories (2950 years old) also includes the Garden of Eden story….complete with a serpent, an apple, and an act of punishment. Concerning the latter, the punishment reads:

Accursed be the soil because of you. With suffering you shall get your food from it. You shall have sweat on your brow every day of your life, until you return to the soil, from whence you came.

What is the punishment saying? It is saying that work is a curse….and that the curse is rooted in our sinfulness. We are condemned by God to work, and that work will be sweaty and hard.

But how many times have I tried to teach you that the stories of Genesis are not chronological? They are layered into position over a period of 500 years. And so it is that Chapter 1 of Genesis dates from 450 BC….meaning that it is 500 years closer to us than Chapter 2 of Genesis. I know that’s hard to believe, but trust me. Which means that the creation story of Chapter 1 (the story where God does things day by day….light first….humans last….with all of the creation initiated by speech rather than by hand) is considerably more sophisticated and stylized than the material in Chapters 2 and 3.

And notice that the view of work in Chapter 1 differs from the view of work in Chapter 3. Work is not toil. Work is not a curse. Work is not a punishment for sin. Work is what humankind is created to do. We are supposed to fill the earth….till the earth….care for the earth….and manage everything in it. We are supposed to be attentive to the earth. And we are supposed to be productive in the earth.

In fact, in Genesis 1, there is a rhythm to each and every day of creation. And what is that rhythm? Work and rest….work and rest….work and rest. That’s the rhythm. What’s more, everything about it is said to be “good.” It is as if….given 500 years to think about it….the Jewish mind wanted to correct itself on whether work was a curse or a blessing. And it chose “blessing.”

We could spend all day with that idea. But drop it, the better that we might jump to the Reformers. I’m talking about Luther, Calvin, and (in latter days) even Wesley. It is from this era that we received the notion of the “Protestant work ethic.” It is not by accident that Western Europe became highly economically developed in the 16th century and also became Protestant at the same time. Recall that Ben Franklin, in his autobiography, remembered a Bible verse ground into his head repeatedly by his Calvinist father. That verse being Proverbs 22:29: “Seeest thou a man diligent in his labors. He shall stand before kings.”

And it is no secret that in the mid-1700s, Methodists in England were persecuted by Anglicans, not because of their religious defection from the mother church, but because Methodists were religiously inspired to work longer and harder than their Anglican neighbors. In many cases, Methodists were beaten, blacklisted, and often had their tools broken by their non-Methodist comrades.

“Honor your secular calling,” the Reformers said. “Fulfill your daily tasks with cheer and diligence.” Also peculiar to the Reformation was the admonishment: “Never be idle.” For many, the wasting of time was both the first and the deadliest of sins. Where do you think the phrase “idle hands are the devil’s playmate,” came from? And note the number of sermons delivered by the Reformers on the parable of the talents (complete with its condemnation of the one-talent man who buried what he was given, thus turning his back on the opportunity to make it grow).

And it was out of the Reformation that this idea was pushed to its ridiculous extreme, voiced by some of the Puritans in their utter distrust of anything that looked too much like pleasure and too little like effort. But they did reclaim the corrected Hebrew notion, namely that we were created to work, rather than cursed to work.

What does this mean? It means that work….biblically understood….is not a means to an end, but an end in itself. A job may be one means of working. But a job is surely not the only means of working. Which is certainly good news for those who are retired.

We used to sing an old hymn which is no longer in our hymnal. Much to my regret. So I’ll have to recall it for you, rather than sing it with you. The first line reads: “Work, for the night is coming.” And the last line reads: “When man’s work is done.”

But when is that….when man’s work is done, that is?

            Is it 5:00?

            Is it Friday afternoon?

            Is it Friday at sundown?

            Is it age 65?

If you know the hymn, you know that it is none of the above. Man’s work is done at night. But, in this instance, night has nothing to do with sundown….and everything to do with shutdown. For “night” is a symbol for dying.

Which, I suppose means: “Work ‘til you drop.” But that doesn’t sound terribly appealing. So a better way of saying it might be: “To work is to live.”

Honey in the Lion 8/23/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Judges 14:1-14

When our daughter Julie was very young….and very small….we never went anywhere without taking along a bag of her favorite books. Which we read aloud to her, over and over again. Most of which we memorized. As did she. But she never tired of hearing them, even though we tired of reading them. And woe be unto anyone who skipped a page, the better to cover the material quickly. The penalty for that breach of literary etiquette was the requirement to go back to the beginning and start all over.

We read it all. We read the Dr. Suess stuff. We read the Richard Scarry stuff. But never did we skip a bedtime without reading Mickey Mouse’s Joke Book. As to why that topped the list, I didn’t know then….and I don’t know now. But when I stopped in the middle of this paragraph to call Julie….at work….in Atlanta….to ask if she remembered it, she not only remembered it, but told me where (in the basement) I could find it.

The humor is basic stuff with a heavy dependence on riddles. Her favorite page featured Goofy rushing to his new job at the Eagle Laundry, causing Mickey to ask him what he did there. The answer: “Wash eagles, of course.” And the accompanying picture depicted several bald eagles…. still dripping with water and suds….fastened to a clothesline with big wooden clothespins. Of course, to appreciate the humor, a kid would have to be familiar with a clothesline and wooden clothespins. Which most aren’t….and haven’t been for 20 years.

All of us cut our teeth on riddles. And some of us still sharpen our teeth on riddles. Every culture has them. No language is without them. Even pre-literary people enjoyed them. Some riddles take new forms in changing times. When I was a child, we asked: “What’s black and white, and red (read) all over?” The answer: “A newspaper.” In the ‘70s, however….when the mood of the young turned cynical and the humor, macabre….we asked: “What’s black and white and red all over?” To which the answer came back: “A nun in a blender.” Indeed, there are Ph.D. dissertations which undertake, as their sole purpose, the analysis of a nation’s humor as the barometer of a nation’s mood.

Many years ago, a young man constructed a riddle to mystify his contemporaries. And it is his riddle that both highlights this morning’s text and occasions this morning’s sermon. The young man is Samson (of Samson and Delilah fame). But Delilah is not yet on the scene and, in no way, figures in the story. This is the period of the judges (along about 1150 B.C.), when Israel was ruled….somewhat loosely….by a number of regional chieftains. For those wishing to place things in proper context, this period comes after Moses, but before David. Samson is one of these judges.

Not necessarily the brightest guy to ever come down the pike, we tend to remember Samson for his legendary strength. ‘Twas said that with nothing more than the jawbone of an ass, he could rout whole armies. And while that may have been stretching things a bit, you get the picture. That strength comes into play in this morning’s story, as does the other thing for which Samson is known….namely, his roving eye and his less-than-prudent assessment of women. Which makes his story more timely than I knew when I picked it. But let’s not go there. At least not today.

Back to the story. While wandering in the village of Timnah, Samson notices a certain young woman who pleases him. Whereupon he returns home and says to his mother and father: “She’s the one. I want her. Go get her.” It being the duty of the parents, you see, to provide wives for their sons (and, presumably, husbands for their daughters).

His parents are less than happy with his choice, given that this girl has a pair of strikes against her. She is not from Samson’s village. And she is not from Samson’s people. Samson is a Jew. She is a Philistine. In other words, she is “one of them”….not “one of us.” So they say: “Can’t you find anybody local?” To which he replies: “I want what I want. Go do your fatherly thing.”

So, in the company of his parents, Samson heads for Timnah, where (in the middle of a vineyard) he encounters a young lion (“young” as in athletic….not “young” as in baby). But with his phenomenal strength….and with the Spirit of the Lord….he tears the lion apart. Which is done bare-handed, as one might tear apart a kid (“kid” as in baby goat….not “kid” as in second grade child). Which impresses me to no end. I mean, my grandmother used to kill chickens for Sunday dinner, but never a lion. I have never known anybody who killed a lion. Even my “tough as nails” Aunt Emma never killed a lion. Although she could have.

Killing a lion is an important mythic image. Hercules killed one….also bare-handed. As did Polydamas….in imitation of Hercules. And in I Samuel 17:36, the youthful David tells Saul that he can go one-on-one with Goliath because, on previous occasions, he has already killed lions….and bears. But, then, so have the Packers. And in II Samuel 23:20, one of David’s men (Benaiah, by name) killed a lion….in a pit….in the snow. Later we read that Benaiah also killed an Egyptian (“a handsome Egyptian,” the Bible adds). Suffice it to say, lion-killing is an act that is as mythic as it is expedient. Anybody who’s anybody has done it. Some, more than once.

At any rate, Samson kills the lion….leaves the lion….and sometime later (while traveling down the same road) comes upon the lion’s carcass. But now he finds that a swarm of bees has taken up residence there. For in barren areas, where hollow trees are not available in abundance, wild bees often establish colonies in animal carcasses. Apparently, a dried out old hide provides a perfect home.

So with the lion’s carcass now rich in honey, Samson scoops out a handful and goes merrily on his way. The story gives no clue as to how he fights off the bees. But, as readers, we can’t have everything. Later, he shares some of the honey with his parents, who enjoy it every bit as much as he does. But he doesn’t reveal its origin, given that their tastes may be just a bit more squeamish than his.

Cut now to the wedding. Apparently somebody (presumably, Samson’s father) is successful in getting this sweet young Philistine from Timnah-town to be Samson’s bride. So there is a celebration….a party….a “drinking bout” (if you want to translate the Hebrew precisely)….a seven-day cocktail party….with the actual ceremony taking place at the close of the seventh day. That way, if somebody doesn’t go through with the nuptials, you won’t have spoiled a good reception. In those days, one of the amusements in the course of a wedding feast has the groom testing his fellows with a riddle. Which customarily includes a wager or two. In this case, the wager involves some very expensive clothing (Armani suits….Ellen Tracy dresses…. that sort of stuff).

And this is the riddle that Samson presents:

            Out of the eater came something to eat.

            Out of the strong came something sweet.

With the answer being “honey in the lion.” Except that nobody gets the riddle. At least nobody gets it until the bride reveals it. But that’s another story, and not necessarily a pretty one….given that it kills the wedding, along with 30 of the wedding guests. So let’s not go there, either. Let’s stick with the riddle. Or, to be more precise, let’s stick with its answer: “honey in the lion.”

* * * * *

Which will preach, given its suggestion that Samson was able to find nourishment for living (i.e. honey) in something that threatened to take life from him (i.e. the lion). The lion was, by nature, an eater. But out of his carcass came something to eat. Or, to put it another way, Samson returned to find “a certain sweetness” in the midst of something that could very well have been his destruction.

“Blessed are they (says Ellsworth Kalas) who learn that there is honey in the lion.” Which is sometimes hard to find. Although lions are not hard to find. In part, because they tend to find us. And by now you have figured out that I am not talking about four-legged lions…. with manes and tails….but other kinds of lions, equally fierce and more than capable (in their own way) of eating us alive or maiming us for life.

Life is not without its jungles….which can be anywhere, can’t they? And life is not without its predators….who can be anybody, can’t they? And sometimes the “devouring” is an inside job…. as in the question: “What’s eating you, my friend?” Having lived in city and suburb, I have seen people eaten in both places. Having worked among poor and rich, I have seen people eaten in both circumstances. Whether it be war and violence….depression and disillusionment….poverty and peer pressure….or sickness and bereavement….no one walks the road of life without encountering some hungry lions.

Who will pounce. And maim. And cripple. For that is the nature of lions. That is what they do. If they don’t take your life, they will take their toll. Do not, even for a minute, make light of that. For after meeting them, you will never be the same. Some people go through a crisis and say: “I’ve got to get back to my old self.” But that’s a fruitless quest. You will never get back to your “old self.” For the crisis has taken your “old self” with it. You’ll never get it back. Ever.

But that doesn’t mean that you can’t come out with something. For one of the strangest, yet most sublime facts of human existence, is that something beneficial can always be harvested from life’s most devastating experiences.

When previously-divorced people come to me to be married, I do not turn my back on them because of past failures. Some denominations would make me do so. And a literal interpretation of at least one passage in the Bible would have me do so. But I do not. Instead, I ask them (in the course of talking about their divorce) what they learned about themselves while going through it. And I listen carefully to their answer. For I have little interest in what the other person did, compared to what they, themselves, discovered. For the lessons learned, if internalized, may turn out to be “honey in the lion.”

History, too, offers us story after story in illustration of my point….people who found something to eat in the thing that was eating them. And I could sprinkle our final few minutes with several such accounts. But unless you have survived the lion yourself (to the point of finding a subsequent cache of honey)….or unless you can remember some stunning setback that looked like the defeat of all your dreams (but eventually proved to be the beginning of some turning or triumph)…..you’ll probably just write me off and go on feeling bitter rather than better, and victim rather than victor.

But I’ve got to believe that many of you have made a return trip down the old road where the lion lay (and may still lie)….and have taken your own fistful of honey from his gut, however many years may have passed in the meantime. The key is that you’ve got to go back down that road. Then, you’ve got to look for the honey and, upon finding it, you’ve got to reach for the honey….because neither God nor anyone else is going to hand it to you, free for the asking.

Let me be personal. From time to time, I share an updating word, relative to the fiercest lion I have ever met….or ever hope to meet….in my earthly life. I am talking about the death of my son, Bill, by his own hand, some 52 months ago. For there were times when I felt that lion might very well destroy me, too. In the wake of that hour, I lost my “old self” and have never gotten it back. Nor do I expect to.

Shortly after Bill died, Kris and I made an appointment to see someone Bill had seen….several times….relative to his medication. And I would less than honest if I told you that our meeting went well. It didn’t….for a lot of reasons (which I won’t go into here). Just leave it that we didn’t connect on any level….and that no comfort was taken (quite apart from the question of whether any comfort was given).

But she said something I have never forgotten….in part, because it made me incredibly angry at the time. Said she: “You probably can’t see this now….and, therefore, can’t believe it now….but there will come a day when you will actually view Bill’s death as a gift.”

I suspect she was making reference to things I might learn (personally) that I would eventually put into practice (professionally). But I didn’t want to hear that then. And I didn’t need to hear that then. And I didn’t like being told that then. For I was not ready to have a philosophic discussion about the pastoral benefits of my loss. I was still in what Peter Gomes called my “baying at the moon” stage. I was bleeding. And I was looking for someone to do mop up duty….not perform needle-and-thread stitchery.

Besides, her word “gift” was….and still is….much too strong. Bill’s death didn’t feel like a “present” then. And it doesn’t feel like a “present” now. But she was not entirely off track. For there have been small tastes of honey in that lion, so as to make life’s bread edible….not so much my own bread, but other people’s.

Since that day, I have buried eight suicides. I have lectured twice on suicide. I have preached three times on my own personal experience with suicide. And I will do a workshop in November for professional grief therapists (who deal with suicide as a part of their daily fare). I do not seek out such opportunities. But neither do I turn them down. Every time I do one, it is like taking a can opener to the heart. But each time that wound is opened, something of a cleansing takes place. So whether I am doing any earthly good for anybody else, I suppose (in some strangely self-centered way) I am doing good for me.

But, here and there, it does appear that I am doing a bit of good for somebody else….including a lot people I have never seen. Someone reads one of my sermons and sends me a note. Someone else hears one of my tapes and passes it to a friend who needs it more than they do. And then there’s this.

In late September, Kris and I are going to Scotland for a few days. On one of those days, I am scheduled to play golf and have dinner with a friend of a friend….an old Scot named Alistair. Alistair is a doctor….a retired doctor….a recently widowed doctor….who is a man of keen intellect and deep compassion, but possessed of little (if any) religious faith. In fact, when he heard I was coming….and that we would be playing and dining together….he wrote my friend and said: “I’d love to meet Bill and his wife, but does he know that I am an atheist?”

My friend wrote him back, telling them that I knew and that I would be “okay with it.” But just to give him a feel for me and my nature, my friend sent Alistair a couple of my sermons….two of the “Bill sermons.” In response to which, my friend received this note:

Dear Brent,

Thank you for your letter of 4th April. I am really ashamed of this very late acknowledgement. My only excuse is apathy and lack of concentration. However, I am beginning to feel better, both physically and mentally, with the realization that age is catching up with me fast.

I wasn’t aware of conveying some of my misery in my last letter. Thank you for your insight and understanding. And thank you for sending me Bill Ritter’s sermons and thoughts following the death of Bill Jr. I can only describe both as brilliant, deeply touching, and must confess to shedding some tears. I have read and reread them many times and shall continue to do so. I have also shared most of his all-embracing thoughts. Never could I have clarified, or rather sorted out, so many thoughts and conflicts so adroitly. And this has helped me to see things more in perspective.

I look forward to meeting Bill and Kris.

I look forward to meeting him, too. I will enjoy the golf. And I will enjoy the meal that follows. I suspect that dinner will be on him, given his claim that he has already found food in my words. What kind of food? Darned if I know. But reading between his lines….or lions….I suppose it could be honey.

Note: I am indebted to my United Methodist colleague J. Ellsworth Kalas for his suggestion of the Judges 14 text and the “honey in the lion” image. You can find his treatment of the story (which differs from mine) in his most recent book, Old Testament Stories from the Backside. Peter Gomes’ image of “baying at the moon” can be found in his writings on suffering in The Good Book. As to Mickey Mouse’s Joke Book, I suspect it is out of print. You could borrow my copy. But I am planning on mailing it to my daughter, Julie, for her 24th birthday.

Rescue the Perishing or Why Would Anyone Preach a Good Friday Sermon In the Middle of August? 8/16/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: I Corinthians 1:18-25

Rescue the perishing, care for the dying,

Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave;

Weep o’er the erring one, lift up the fallen,

Tell them of Jesus, the mighty to save.     - United Methodist Hymnal, #591

I want you to humor me for several minutes by pretending that you are consultants….theological consultants….for a short film that is presently being made. The purpose of the film? To depict what God has done for the world in Jesus Christ. But since this film is being produced for an audience that knows relatively little (if anything) about Jesus Christ, we are going to come at the audience through the back door. Therefore, we are not going to shoot it in Israel (or anyplace that looks even remotely like Israel). We are going to shoot it on a beach….in Southern California. And we are not going to shoot it with an actor who looks like Jesus (or anyone who looks even remotely like Jesus….“Send the fake beard and bathrobe back to the costume shop, Harry”). We are going to shoot this film with a lifeguard as a stand-in for Jesus. That’s right, a lifeguard….late twenties….early thirties….blond….muscled….tan….like on Baywatch….that kind of lifeguard.

But there’s a problem, you see. A script problem. Not because there isn’t one. But because there is one too many. Meaning that there are two. And the director can’t tell which one to use. Which is why a team of theological consultants needs to be called in (at the rate of $500 a day plus expenses….thank you very much). And that’s us, don’t you see? Because we know about such things.

The first script starts with rolling credits, even as the camera pans a crowded beach on a Friday afternoon. Make it a Friday afternoon in April (mid to early April). Sun shining. Music blaring. Volleyballs flying. Acres of young, throbbing life recreating. But, as the credits fade, we see that not everything on that beach is quite so perfect as it seems. Because a change in the surf is forcing the lifeguard to order all of the swimmers out of the water. In fact, we see him descending from his tower and posting “No Swimming” signs all along the water’s edge. About which everybody complains….but with which everybody complies. Out of the water they come in twos, threes, fours-and-mores….heading for their blankets, their boom boxes, their lemonade (or whatever). After all, there are other things you can do on a California beach until the surf subsides. So why tempt fate?

Suddenly, however, the mellow mood subsides. Everybody turns toward the sea….first scanning….then screaming. The object of all this attention being a teenage girl 100 yards off shore….bobbing….weaving….surfacing….disappearing….frantically struggling (for balance…. air….life….whatever). Clearly, the girl is catching the crowd’s attention. And the crowd is catching the lifeguard’s attention (who has just re-ascended his tower, after posting his signs of warning).

So down the ladder he comes. Out to the water he runs. To the side of the girl he swims. Deftly reaching her in the nick of time, he corrals her limp and lifeless body, tows her to shore and administers cardio-pulmonary response. All the while the camera pans the crowd, the better to cinematically record the collective anxiety that can be seen on their faces and read on their lips:

            “My God, is it going to work?”

            “Did he reach her in time?”

            “How did a day that started out so wonderful, go so wrong?”

            “Does anybody know who she is?”

But it is going to work. And he does get there in time. The girl revives. A film crew arrives. And there is wonderful footage on the 6:00 news, including interviews with everybody but the lifeguard. The comments, considered collectively, are both perceptive and diverse. Some sing praises to the lifeguard for his heroic behavior. Some cast dispersions on the girl for her less-than-cautious approach to wind, waves and water. Some suggest that her plight should be an object lesson to others who play fast and loose with the rules. While others rededicate themselves, in the spirit of the afternoon’s rescue, to keeping a watchful eye on others who may be similarly sinking….at sea, or anywhere else for that matter. But all agree that they have been privy to something special….something very special, indeed.

That’s one script. But like I said, there are two. So let’s move quickly to the second. Same beach. Same Friday. Same crowd. Same lifeguard. Only this time, for cinematic variety, we start with the lifeguard walking up and down the beach, issuing verbal warnings and waving groups of swimmers out of the water. One girl challenges his authority to do so, telling him what a party pooper he is, given that this is the very last day of her very short vacation. To which he simply says: “Better luck next time. It’s just not safe.”

Another swimmer pauses to ask why he and his friends can’t just stay in the shallow part (so that the whole afternoon won’t be ruined). But all the lifeguard says is: “You can’t, because I said you can’t. So move it.” And when a third swimmer complains that she thought it was a free country, the word comes back from the lifeguard: “Not on my beach, it’s not.”

But all of this bickering is interrupted by the aforementioned shouting and screaming. The object being the teenage girl who is struggling and sinking. Up she comes. Under she goes. Head bobbing. Arms flailing.

Cut to the lifeguard. See him run. See him dive. See him swim. Harder and harder. Faster and faster. At last, he reaches her. Grabs for her. Has her. Loses her. Suddenly, it appears as if they are both in trouble. The same undertow that is sucking her under is sucking him under. In fact, we actually lose sight of him on our screen before we lose sight of her. Then she, too, disappears from our sight, never to return.

Now the music turns somber. The cinematographer shadows out the sun. And we see nothing on the screen but surging swales and circling seagulls. Then we cut back to the crowd on the beach, pausing, again, to look at the faces and listen to the voices.

            “What’s happening?” cries one.

            “I can’t see them,” cries another.

            “Do you think they’ve both drowned?” cries a third.

“It’s terrible,” cries a fourth, even while adding: “How can God just stand by and let people die like that?”

But while the crowd is still murmuring (as crowds at such moments are wont to do), the camera pans back to the now-empty tower of the lifeguard, slowly moving from sand to seat. Up the ladder goes the lens, one rung at a time. And when it zooms in on the place where the lifeguard had been sitting (not all that many minutes ago), there is a close-up of a clipboard (on which is written):

            “It’s o.k. Trust me. She is safe in my death.”

* * * * *

As theological consultants, it is our job to choose one script over another. But the sole criterion for choosing is not which script we like better, but which script more fittingly resonates with the New Testament, as it attempts to answer the critical question: “What, precisely, is it that God has done for the world in Jesus Christ?”

Now I am not going to break you into groups and have you discuss this among yourselves. And I am not going to embarrass you by asking for a public showing of hands. Besides, most of you already know the right answer (to whatever degree there might be a “right answer”). That’s because you have been preached to by good preachers. And that’s because you have studied under good teachers. So you know that the best answer is the second script, even though your heart is not with your head on this one. Because if you went to see this movie….about this lifeguard….on this beach….you’d want to see the first version and not the second. And then you’d want to stop for a Sanders hot fudge sundae on the way home (assuming you could still find anyplace that sold Sanders hot fudge sundaes anymore)….proving (once again) just how far away from home some of us have already come.

And it’s all right if you prefer the first ending. Because I prefer it too. I mean, it’s got a lot to like. It’s heroic. And it’s happy. Mission impossible becomes mission accomplished. What’s more, it’s more than mildly miraculous. And which of us does not want to believe in miracles? Truth be told, was a more honest word ever spoken about religious skepticism than the word, “Nobody believes in miracles until he….or she….desperately needs one.”

I mean, this first script will preach. And has. Over and over again. For it says wonderful things about Jesus (who is all things….and who can do all things). A storm-stilling Jesus. A tide-turning Jesus. A search-and-rescue Jesus. A miracle-working Jesus. In short, a sight-restoring, demon-exorcising, crowd-feeding, water-converting, dead-raising Jesus….who will go to no end on behalf of those who have sinned, slummed or swum too far…. even beyond the limits that the lifeguard said were safe, sane and secure. That’ll preach. Because I have preached it. And will preach it again.

And you can build a marvelous ecclesiology around it (“ecclesiology” meaning “a theology of the church”). You can preach that first script and close each sermon with the admonition:

Go thou and do likewise. Seek out everybody….but especially those who are going down for the count. Bring ‘em in. And if you can’t bring ‘em in, keep ‘em afloat. Feed ‘em. Clothe ‘em. Hold ‘em. House ‘em. Enroll ‘em in swim classes. Set up floating medical units, wherever the undertow is the greatest and the shore is farthest away. And have the ushers take up collections on the beach, gathering anything that might be useful….including dollars. That way, you will never have to say to the King: “When did we see you flailing in the water and not come to your aid?”

Ah yes, there are bits and pieces of the gospel in the first script. There are a ton of sermons in the first script. And there is enough work in the first script to keep the church busy every-which-way from Sunday….in addition to Sunday.

But the heart of the gospel is in the second ending. Which nobody preaches much at all. Because it’s less than happy. And less than heroic. What’s more, it doesn’t offer much of an action plan for the church. I mean, all it does is answer the question: “What has God done for the world in Christ (that the world, by the sum total of its own efforts, cannot do for itself)?”

Go back to the first script….the lifeguard-saves-her-in-the-nick-of-time script. Which is a good thing. And a happy thing. But not necessarily a lasting thing. Concerning it, we can’t say “all’s well that ends well”….because we have no guarantee that anything will really “end well.” I mean, the next day things go back to normal. The crowd goes home, forgetting its earlier resolve to swim safer….drive safer….live safer….or love safer, for that matter. And the lifeguard goes back to chatting up girls while trying to properly apply his sunscreen. And the girl doesn’t automatically live happily ever after, either. Sure, she is saved from death by drowning on a sunny Friday afternoon. But she is not necessarily saved from the future possibility of a failed romance….a dead-end marriage….men in bars, who say one thing, yet do another thing….not to mention migraines, muscle spasms, cramps, cancer, bad hair days….or, to clinch my point, from the absolute certainty of her own death on the Friday afternoon following her 81st birthday.

Even the miracles of Jesus don’t “fix things” finally. Not even a bevy of blind folks seeing, lame folks walking and crazy folks thinking, along with three dead bodies raised, two group feedings, and one spectacular production of 180 gallons of wine for wedding guests who are already three sheets gone to the wind….no, none of these things constitutes a program for fixing up history. Most of the blind of Jesus’ day remained blind. Whatever fixed 10 lepers had no positive effect on the other 10,000. Lazarus rose, only to die again. And 180 gallons later, one presumes that any wedding guests still standing were forced to turn to apple juice, coffee or skim milk.

But if you read the gospels carefully (especially the gospel of John), such miracles were never meant to be Jesus’ program for fixing up history….but merely “signs” of his program for fixing up history….which program (when it was finally revealed) turned out to be nothing less than Jesus dying in history and rising beyond it. Meaning that the same Jesus who cannot fix everything can, at least, fix the one thing that matters ultimately.

Which, too, will preach. Except nobody preaches it much….except on Good Friday….when nobody comes to listen. Which is also when (in the spirit of Christian neighborliness) we rotate the service from sanctuary to sanctuary, so that even if some of us have something to say, it’s only one year out of four that we get a chance to say it….and maybe, then, in the 2:30 time slot when everybody’s gone home.

So what is the Good Friday message? Well, what did the clipboard say?

            “It’s o.k. Trust me. She is safe in my death.”

And what did Paul say?

            For Jews demand signs and Greeks demand wisdom. But we preach Christ crucified. For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.

Last Wednesday morning (along about 7:00) I read to my study group these words from Peter Gomes:

The reason that the dying sometimes ask to see the cross before they die is to be reminded that Jesus has been where they are now and that, by his grace, they are about to go where he is. They know that death was as real to Jesus as it is to them. They know that he was not rescued in the nick of time. And they know that they will not be rescued in the nick of time, either. They know that when his hour came, he had to meet it….that there was no way out….and that what was true for him will soon be true for them. But they know that while there is no way out, there is a way through.

                        Hold thou the cross before my closing eyes,

                        Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies,

                        Heaven’s morning breaks and earth’s vain shadows flee,

                        In life, in death, O Lord abide with me.

The other night….on the patio….along about 10:30….fountain splashing….candles flickering…. stars shining….plates and glasses empty….bellies full….hearts as one….Kris said: “It really doesn’t get much better than this.” And she was right, of course. For the time being.

Note:  This sermon owes a tremendous debt to the creative suggestion of Robert Farrar Capon and his new book, The Foolishness of Preaching: Proclaiming the Gospel Against the Wisdom of the World. The quote from Peter Gomes is taken from his chapter on “The Bible and Suffering” which can be found in The Good Book.