Somewhere Between Great Lakes Crossing and the Plains of Bethlehem 12/20/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Psalm 34:8, John 1:43-46

Let’s start with a word about economies and how they change, or birthday cakes and how they evolve. Back in the days of the agrarian economy (when most of us lived on farms or depended upon those who did), mothers made birthday cakes from scratch, mixing farm commodities like flour, sugar, butter and eggs, that together cost mere dimes.

As the farms gave way to the factories….and as the agrarian economy gave way to the Industrial Revolution….moms paid a dollar or two to Betty Crocker for birthday cake ingredients that were already pre-mixed and pre-boxed.

Later, when the service economy took its place alongside of the industrial economy, busy moms ordered cakes from the bakery or the grocery store, which (at $10 or $15 a pop) cost ten times as much as the ingredients that Betty Crocker provided.

Now, in the time-starved nineties, moms no longer bake the cake or even buy it and bring it home. Instead, they are likely to spend $100 or more to “out source” the entire event to McDonald’s, Chuck E. Cheese’s, or some other entertainment emporium that will stage a memorable event for kids (and probably throw in the cake for free).

“Welcome to the experience economy.” Which is not so much my greeting as that of Joseph Pine and James Gilmore, who are the co-authors of a book entitled Every Business a Stage: Why Customers Now Want Experiences. Truth be told, I haven’t read their book. But, thanks to Bill Burnett, I did read their article in the Harvard Business Review published in July of this year. And they make an interesting case. They suggest that from now on, leading-edge companies will find that the next competitive battleground lies, not in providing goods or services, but in staging experiences. Unless companies want to fall by the wayside, they will be compelled to upgrade their offerings to this newest stage of consumer gratification.

But how does an experience differ from a service….and how do you sell it? Some of you remember the old television series, Taxi, and a rather sleazy character named Jim Ignatowski (who sometimes went by the title Rev. Jim). One day, Jim decided to become the best taxi driver in New York. So he served sandwiches and beverages to his passengers, conducted guided tours of Manhattan, and even sang Frank Sinatra tunes while cruising the city. By engaging his riders in a way that turned an ordinary cab ride into a memorable event, Jim gave them something decidedly extra for their money. His customers responded by giving bigger tips. And a few even asked him to drive around the block one more time, the better to prolong the enjoyment.

Now all kinds of businesses are trying to get in on the act. Earlier this fall, I told you of my invitation to attend the grand opening of the Kroger store in downtown Birmingham. As one who seldom frequents such places, I declined. But then I began to understand that I had missed something. So I went to see for myself. And what I discovered was that this was “not my father’s grocery store.” It engaged all of my senses. There were things to look at….things to smell…. things to taste. There were things to stretch my imagination, from seaweed to sushi. And while I haven’t been back many times since, the Kroger people have broken through my earlier barriers, thus guaranteeing return visits at some time in the future.

Or consider movie theaters. I used to fork over my money and sit down to see a film. But now the owner of the Star Theater complex in Southfield suggests that “it should be worth the price of the movie just to enter his building.” Which is why the Star Theater annually charges its 3 million customers a 25 percent higher admission than the local competitor down the street, because of the fun-house experience it provides. And with 65,000 square feet of restaurants and stores being added to the complex, it is not inconceivable that Star will charge us to walk through the front door, whether we ever see a movie or not.

Which brings me to Great Lakes Crossing. Some of you wondered about its inclusion in this morning’s title. Actually, when I selected the title, I’d never been to the mall. I feel about outlet malls pretty much as I feel about grocery stores….maybe even worse. But I kept hearing those advertisements promising “eye-popping, heart-stopping, jaw-dropping shopping.” And I kept reading about traffic jams at the Joslyn Road exit, not to mention five hour waits at some of the mall’s more popular restaurants.

So last Thursday night, I took a little field trip. In the company of my wife (a seasoned shopper), I actually spent two hours in the place. Not that my heart stopped, mind you. In fact, I was rather disappointed. To be sure, the place was big. There was a food court “half the size of Utah.” And there were 204 places that would have been glad to take my money, had I chosen to part with any. But half of the shops, I’d never heard of. And the biggest discounts were clearly reserved for the least popular items. I did take a closer look at a place called Neiman Marcus’ Last Call (which sounded like a title chosen by a bartender rather than a retailer). And it looked like the sale of a bunch of stuff that nobody else had wanted. Which didn’t do much for making me want it, either.

The restaurants were cool. There was a place with the word “Alcatraz” in its title, offering me the opportunity to bite a burger behind bars. But having spent quite a bit of time in prison the last few weeks, that was the last thing I wanted to do. So Kris and I tried the Rainforest Café….where it really does rain….right beside you….all the time. I didn’t stay long enough for mold to grow on my sport coat. But the food was decent. And there were animated animals, ranging from elephants to crocodiles. Which were fun the first time. And my grandchildren might like them a second time….if and when I ever have grandchildren. But I passed on buying a T-shirt. And probably won’t go back anytime in the near future. It’s a mall, for crying out loud. Although others would call it “the wave of the future.”

Notice that in my mild critique of Great Lakes Crossing, I said less about my shopping than about my experience. Which didn’t match the hype….or my expectation. Had I actually bought something and saved several dollars in the process, I might have come home thrilled. But I did not go there to purchase a product. Nor was I invited there to purchase a product. I was invited to participate in a pleasure. Which did beat cleaning the leaves out of the gutter. But not by a lot.

Still, this “enchantment with experience” intrigues me, given the degree to which I find it impacting the church. Increasingly, people come not just to “get something” or “give something,” but to “experience something.” For years, people who studied the church market (the better to instruct marketing dummies like me), said that what people wanted from the church were a wider-range and better-quality of goods and services. Sunday schools for the small ones. Youth groups for the growing (and, potentially, straying ones). Choirs (vocal, bell, handchime, instrumental, folk, soft rock and praise) for the musical ones. Teams for the athletic ones. Support groups for the troubled ones. Growth groups for the searching ones. Social groups for the gregarious ones. Work projects for the handsy ones. Day trips for the antsy ones. And seminars for the studious ones. Every year….more. Every year….better.

Which was a message I heard. But now, I am told, there is another shift. One which is more subtle….less specific….harder to classify….harder, still, to satisfy. People are now coming “to experience something.” And when they do, they are not altogether sure what it was. But they announce a willingness to come back (as they tell me), because they liked the “feel” of the place. Which puts a lot of pressure, don’t you see, on those of us responsible for creating the “feel” of the place….given that we don’t fully understand this phenomenon, and don’t agree 100 percent among ourselves about what a fitting and proper church of Jesus Christ ought to “feel like” in the first place.

But there is one thing I do know. This business of “experiencing church” is never more pronounced than at Christmastime….when people who seldom darken our doors suddenly find themselves streaming through them. Which is fine by me. You will never hear this preacher decrying (or denying) the “C and E crowd,” or the “twicesters” as some of my colleagues call them. Because I, for one, can’t always tell the mildly curious from the deeply devout. And even religious voyeurs, peering through the Christmas Eve darkness from the shadowed corners of the balcony, would appear to be looking for something. Although I doubt that many of them understand the nature of their search, or the depth of their need to be here.

At Duke Chapel, they have already announced (well in advance) that the ushers will close the doors to the 11:00 p.m. service after 1700 persons have been admitted to the sanctuary. This is in response to a would-be congregant (last year) who berated the head usher, screaming: “This is Christmas Eve. You’ve got to let me in. I’ve got my rights. You can’t keep me outta church on Christmas Eve.” I doubt that anybody (usher….preacher….screamer) fully understood what lay behind his behavior….or his need. All I know is that when you are hungry….and somebody tells you there is a two hour wait at the restaurant….more than your stomach will growl.

But (on Christmas Eve) hungry for what? I’m not always sure. Certainly for something old. An old story. Several old songs. An old face. An old faith. Certainly, an old feeling (“I came Christmas Eve, and got that old feeling”). And perhaps (just perhaps) an old assurance….that the timeless verities we trumpet at Christmas (sometimes to the point of spirit-numbing banality) are still verities (meaning still “true”). I’m talking about things like peace, love and joy….light in the dark places….highways in the crooked places….songs in the silent places….those sorts of things. Christmas Eve is the one time of year when the sheep come to be fed yesterday’s food….having remembered that it filled them once….desperately hoping against hope that it will fill them again. And in a world where cruise missiles are falling, impeachment votes are flying, and Marcy Devernay’s list of 20,000 names is longer than Santa Claus’, who can blame them.

But in addition to being hungry for something old, I think they (and we) are also hungry for something deep….perhaps too deep for human telling. I’m talking about a mystery that cannot be explained, so much as entered into (which is another word for “experienced”….which is another word for “felt”). Unlike the late Joe Friday of the L.A.P.D., people come on Christmas Eve wanting more than “just the facts.”

It took me awhile to learn it….but learn it I did….that nobody comes to church on Christmas Eve for an explanation of the incarnation. And when, in a darkened sanctuary we sing “Round yon virgin, mother and child,” no one is interested in debating gynecology or paternity (not that such subjects aren’t important….but, at that moment, hardly appropriate). Whenever people tell me they’re having a hard time “getting Christmas,” they are not talking about a problem with the intellect, but a problem with the emotions.

So what is this mystery that the church would have us enter? Namely, that God has not, will not, and perhaps (if God be true to God’s nature) cannot abandon history. God is not an absentee landlord who lets the old place run down because he doesn’t live there anymore…..doesn’t go there anymore….and doesn’t care what happens there anymore. Rather, God is a stakeholder in history….in humanity….and in the happenings of ordinary human beings like you and me. If Easter is about a God who comes back to collect us at life’s end, then Christmas is about a God who comes to “comfort us” in life’s middle.

How can this be? Well….come and see! That’s the answer of the carols. That’s the answer of the gospels. That’s the answer of the shepherds. That’s the answer of the angels. That’s the answer of the star. And that’s the answer of pretty much everybody in the Gospel of John….from Philip speaking to Nathanael….from the eleven speaking to Thomas….from the blind guy speaking to the Pharisees….and from a five-times-married lady speaking to a bunch of guys who used to pick her up at a local watering hole. Come and see. “O taste and see how gracious the Lord is” (Psalm 34:8). Meaning, move in….draw near….come close….open up….drink it in (first with your eyes, then with your heart).

And how might one do that? Well, it depends on whether you are a kid or a parent. If you are a kid, all it takes is putting on a costume. I mean, which one of us (at least one time in our lives) didn’t don a bathrobe, lace up some sandals, put a crook in our hands or attach some wings to our back, and stand around some straw-filled box with a plastic baby in it. Most of the really good Christmas stories have to do with something silly or sublime that once happened when a bunch of neophyte munchkins answered a casting call for a script that began: “Now the birth of Jesus Christ took place in this way.”

In fact, Sue Ives tells me that 105 kids have signed up to take part in our 4:30 p.m. reenactment on Christmas Eve….meaning that we truly will have a host of angels and (perchance) an entire brigade of kings. We could, I suppose, have multiple Marys. But Kate Wilcox tells me we have but one Mary suit. And we wouldn’t want to open ourselves to the promulgation of a new (and potentially deceiving) doctrine….namely, group childbirth.

But, if there is no costume that fits you and no pageant that requires you, let me invite you to get in touch….not with a childhood memory….but with a parental one. I want you to remember the first time somebody gave you a baby to hold. Your baby to hold. How shriveled it looked. How small it appeared. How fragile it seemed. How proud, excited, humbled, dumbstruck and frightened you felt. Perhaps even to the point of resolving (as one father did) that: “I had better clean up my act and become somebody….because she is somebody.”

What if, on a night of great solemnity, you were to draw nigh to some simple nativity, only to have Mary call you over….with a name….with a nod….or maybe with but the merest movement of a finger, and say: “Yes, Ron, you….why don’t you hold the baby….just for a moment. Because it is your child, you know.”

What would it feel like to hold that much of God’s future for the world….and that much of God’s faith in you….in your very own hands?

Should Mary make the offer, don’t deny it. And, for God’s sake, don’t drop it. For, as Sister Mary Corita once said: “Be, of love, a little more careful than of anything.”

Note: I am indebted to Bill Burnett for sharing the article by Joseph Pine and James Gilmore entitled “Every Business a Stage: Why Customers Now Want Experiences.” Look for it in the July-August issue of Harvard Business Review. I am equally indebted to Peter Gomes and his perceptive understanding of the Christmas Eve congregation, which can be found in his newest work, The Good Book, in a chapter entitled “The Bible and Mystery.” And for those not familiar with Oakland County politics, Marcy Devernay is a highly-publicized provider of female escorts whose “black book” allegedly contains the names of some 20,000 citizens (many of them prominent).

On Playing in the Fairway 10/11/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Proverbs 3:11-12, Galatians 6:1-5, Ephesians 4:15-16

Let me begin by confessing that I once lost my sole on the golf course. Fortunately, my shoe manufacturer gave me a full refund.

Having just returned from Scotland, many of you have asked about my golf game. In fact, many of you asked about my golf game before I went to Scotland. As your final words to me, at least 50 of you said: “Hit ‘em straight.”

Actually, I did play twice….which, given the raindrops, was no small achievement. Both courses were links courses (meaning that they are laid out along the sea). Both courses were historic courses, meaning that I was taking divots from hallowed ground. No, I didn’t get on the old course at St. Andrews. But I did get on the old courses at Prestwick and Crail. And I would have played the queen’s course at Balmoral, had not the rain turned it into a quagmire.

Golf is a hobby for many, a sport for some, and an addiction for a few. Into the latter category falls a man I heard about recently. It seems he teed his ball on the sixth hole of his favorite course, hooked his drive terribly, and ended up in an unplayable position. Between where his ball landed and the green began was a barn….a rather large barn. But his wife, playing with him, assessed his predicament and then suggested:

Look, why don’t you go for it? You’ll never hit it over the barn, but you might be able to hit through it.  I’ll open the barn’s front door. Then I’ll walk through and open the barn’s back door. When I wave, you take out a two iron, smack it hard, keep it low, and you may luck out.

So she proceeded to open the barn’s front door, walked through and opened the barn’s rear door, and then gave a wave, indicating that the time had come to hit. Seeing the signal, he took out a two iron, rocketed a shot through the barn doors, and hit his wife upside the head, killing her instantly.

Three years later, while playing with a friend, he hooked the same drive on the same hole, landing in virtually the same spot. Upon surveying the predicament, his friend said:

Look, why don’t you go for it? This barn has two doors. I’ll open the front. Then I’ll walk through and open the back. When you see me wave, take out a two iron and whack it with everything you’ve got.

“No way,” said the golfer. “The last time I tried that on this hole, I took a six.”

Someday, someone will explain to me why so many stories about golf are also stories about death. I can think of at least three classic jokes that combine the two. Rather than tell them, I’ll simply call them to mind by reciting the punch lines:

The good news is that there are great golf courses in heaven. The bad news is that you have a tee time on Monday morning.

Why wouldn’t I interrupt my round to pay my last respects? After all, she gave me the best 30 years of my life.

(And who can forget the immortal:) “I’ll tell you why it took me eight hours to play 18 holes. I had to hit the ball and drag Fred….hit the ball and drag Fred.”

Humor has a way of illuminating a lot of things, not the least of which is the way we tend to get our priorities all screwed up, playing away at “life’s little games” while life’s most significant relationships take it in the head. Such is not my primary point this morning. But if it happens to fit your particular situation, feel free to use it as you like.

Instead, I want you to note that this story could never have been told, had not the golfer strayed from the fairway. But being aware of the fact that there are a few non-golfers among us, I suppose a brief definition of a“fairway” might be in order. When you hit a golf ball, the fairway is where you want your ball to land. The grass is shorter there. The ground is smoother there. And the route to the hole is less encumbered there. Should your ball stray outside the fairway, I suppose it could be said that you have found the “foulway.” And while there is no such word as “foulway” (at least until now), it pretty well sums up the problem. In golfing’s lexicon, straying from the fairway (interesting choice of verb….“straying”) lands you in the “rough,” which (on more difficult courses) is often described as being “unforgiving.” And upon reaching the rough, three ponderables come into play….all of them bad. You may not be able to find your ball. You may find it, but not be able to hit it. Or you may be forced to take a penalty.

Sometimes even worse things happen. I once hit a shot through some lady’s kitchen window at 7:30 in the morning. She was nice enough to bring the ball out to me….in her nightgown. And seeing that she was already out in the yard returning my ball, she struck up a conversation so as to learn a little more about me….such as my address, my phone number, and the name of my insurance agent.

As I have suggested on other occasions, I believe that God created people who can hit the ball a long way, and people who can hit the ball a straight way. Alas, those are seldom the same people. Which turns “fairways” into “foreign countries” for those who have the strength to put plenty of postage on the ball, but can never seem to guide it to the right address.

That very problem once caught up with me at Wabeek Country Club, when (playing as somebody’s guest) I lofted a five iron majestically into the heavens, whereupon it cleared the green….cleared the fringe….cleared the rough….and landed in somebody’s back yard. That somebody was named “Lou Whitaker.” And having heard for years that the term “Sweet Lou” was coined to describe his agility around second base rather than his disposition around strangers, I tiptoed into his yard….picked up my ball….and tiptoed out. Even though I had a shot. I mean, I really did.

By now you have probably surmised that I am playing with the word “fairway” as something of a moral metaphor for lives that do not stray into the rough or land out of bounds. But in life, as in golf, such is easier said than done….and maybe unaccomplishable, apart from a little help from one’s friends.

This is best illustrated by one last golf story, this one concerning a great golfer (Arnold Palmer) playing in an even greater golf tournament (the Masters at Augusta National). How sweet it would be to find myself in Augusta some April, as was a ministerial colleague of mine a few years ago. And it is his account that I share with you now. It seems that he chose to follow Palmer, joining the gallery that was known, in those days, as “Arnie’s Army.” On the 13th hole, Palmer shanked one down along the edge of the creek bed. Let my friend tell it from here:

When I saw where Arnie’s ball landed, I said to myself: “No way will he be able to recover for par.” So turning to the person next to me, I decided to play strategist: “What Arnie needs to do,” I said, “is to play it safe, chip out to the fairway and settle for a bogey. Because if he tries a long iron out of that lie, either he won’t get it out, or he’ll hit it flat and wind up out-of-bounds on the other side.” This observation caused the guy standing next to me to say: “That just shows how much you know. This must be your first trip to the Masters.” Then he went on to add: “What Palmer is really going to do is hit the ball as hard as he can. And he won’t go out of bounds, because he’s going to hit the ball straight at the gallery.”

Which is exactly what Palmer did. He slashed the ball straight at the crowd, where somebody who loved him a whole lot more than I did got in front of the ball and let it hit him. There followed a bit of kicking and scuffling. And when the ball stopped, it was right back on the fairway. Whereupon the person standing next to me turned and said: “As long as there’s a crowd at Augusta National, Arnold Palmer will never hit if out of bounds at the Masters.”

What a wonderful story. It makes me wish I could play with a gallery like that. Heck, it makes me wish I could live with a gallery like that….a gallery filled with people who would love me enough so that they would do everything in their power to keep my life from going out of bounds. Lots of lives do….go out of bounds, that is. And few there are who seem to notice or care.

Harvard theologian Harvey Cox often talks about the demise of what was formerly known as “town morality.” Let’s say you were a kid growing up in a small town where people shopped at your dad’s store, got their hair done in your Aunt Flo’s salon, or sang in the Presbyterian church choir where your mom was the organist. Townspeople knew your people. And they knew you. They knew your face. They knew your voice. They especially knew your car. If you drove it a little too fast, somebody knew that. And if you parked it on a lookout over town (to the point of steaming up the windshield), somebody knew that, too. And if you pushed the limits of propriety a bit too far….and a bit too often….somebody would hear about it. Which means that sooner or later, you’d hear about it. So you kind of watched things, because you knew (in the back of your mind) that you were being watched.

Which is not all bad. And, to the degree that such social networks no longer operate like they used to, that’s not all good. Consider preachers’ kids. Everybody knows who they are….which can be stressful. But everybody also cares who they are….which can be helpful. Why must we always assume that living “under scrutiny” is a terrible thing?

Today, “town morality” is largely dead. People move around. People live more privately. People live in multiple circles which seldom intersect. People seek anonymity. Therefore, nobody watches them. But the flip side is that nobody watches out for them. Morality has become privatized. The business of staying “in bounds” is largely a personal business….which makes it harder.

The other day, in a cluster of male friends, the conversation turned to a particular group of establishments across the river in Windsor. These establishments are widely known for the fact that there are more women who dance on the tables than there are who wait on them. In the middle of the conversation, someone turned to me andsaid: “Have you ever been over to one of those joints?” And I said: “Just as soon as I’d walk in the door, I’d run into a bunch of my parishioners at a table in the corner.” Which was an interesting response on my part. For while there are a whole lot of other reasons….and better reasons….as to why I’m not a “regular” at Jason’s, it is interesting that I cited you (my parishioners) as being an important component in my decision-making process. For your opinions matter to me….as do your expectations. And while I don’t necessarily feel bound by them, my natural inclination is to pay close attention to them.

This is why people seek anonymity whenever they feel inclined to deviate from the norm. “I’ll go where nobody knows me.” After all, the prodigal didn’t take his share of the money and split for a “far country” just because the rate of monetary exchange would be more favorable, once he crossed the border. To the contrary, the words “far country” constitute a biblical euphemism for a place where ordinary constraints that govern human behavior no longer apply.

Isn’t this why most school districts have distanced themselves from those exotic trips….such as Caribbean cruises….taken by high school seniors? There’s a reason school administrators have soured on such ventures. As one superintendent once said to me (very much off the record): “Some of what we’ve learned is pretty awful.” Which is not meant to indict any specific kid, or any cluster of kids. But it is to acknowledge that one of the reasons 17-year-olds like to sail beyond the three-mile limit is that open water feels (for all the world) like a moral twilight zone….where everything that matters….and everyone who matters….can be temporarily put on hold.

I was on one of those four day cruises, four years ago. It was about the time that several seniors were celebrating “spring break.” Many of them did not even see dinner on the first night. Which was the direct result of too many rum punches between shoving off from shore at 1:00 and sitting down to supper at 7:00.

Comedian Billy Crystal pointed to the same “suspension of responsibility” in his marvelous film on male bonding known as City Slickers. In one especially poignant scene he put the question to several friends: “If the opportunity ever presented itself, and you could be 100 percent certain (absolutely guaranteed) that nobody would ever find out, would you consider cheating on your wife?” And I suspect that every single man, at one time or another, has at least pondered that question.

Part of what supports us in our moral decision-making is that others will find out….and we value what they think. What’s more, we count on their thinking to help us frame and fashion our decisions. We have always found it hard to be “good” in a vacuum. It is abundantly clear to me that whenever the church has been most true to its New Testament calling, it has been the kind of community that helps keep its members from slipping out of bounds. “Gently reprove one another,” Paul said to the Galatians. “Speak the truth to one another in love,” he urged the Ephesians. “Accept discipline as reflective of God’s love,” the people were told in the letter to the Hebrews.

Which was probably as hard to do then as it is now. For we are afraid to intrude upon another’s space. We are afraid to violate another’s freedom. We are afraid of appearing intolerant in an overly-indulgent age. All of which are valid fears. But if we constantly act as if the things people do don’t matter, people will begin to get the idea that they don’t matter. “The Lord reproves those he loves,” says Proverbs 3:11, followed by: “The Lord admonishes those in whom he delights.” I remember an athletically inclined friend of mine saying: “The worst day of my football career was the day I realized that the coach was no longer chewing my tail. Because that’s the day I realized I was pretty much superfluous to the team, and that there were no further plans to play me in any game that mattered.” Do you think that Weight Watchers has mastered the art of addressing people in a manner that "speaks the truth in love?” You betcha. Alcoholics Anonymous? You better believe it. And what do you think a teenager is doing when that teen quietly takes the car keys away from a friend? Or when an adult, without great fanfare, raises a truth that everyone else is about to trample?

I promised myself that I would not wallow in the reams of material recently released by the grand jury in Washington, concerning who touched who, where, in the intimate recesses of the White House. And, for the most part, I have kept that promise. But all of us are forced to swim in a river of information that has exceeded its banks and permeated the neighborhoods. Which means that there is no avoiding the particulars. And one of the particulars that concerns me is the number of people who knew about the President’s behavior, but said nothing to the President. One might have hoped for a critical question or two….a raised issue or two….a pointed conversation or two (initiated out of a concern for the man, the marriage, the office or the intern). But it seems that such never happened. Which is understandable, I suppose. But sad….so incredibly sad.

How do we help each other stay in-bounds? That question haunts me more and more as boundaries seem to matter less and less. As questions go, I’ll lay it on your hearts as I close with a story of one of the angriest ladies I ever met. She was a minister’s wife, well known to many of us. What was also known to many of us was the fact that her husband (who had been our colleague and friend for 20 years) was openly involved with another woman….herself, a church professional. Their affair had been going on for a number of years. People had seen them. People had talked to them. People had talked about them. And the body of talk had reached the highest levels of the church.

Finally, it all broke open. And the wife (having known nothing previously) found out. What she also found out was how long everybody else had been in on the secret. Which made her feel like a fool, in addition to feeling like a victim.

To virtually anybody and everybody, her anger boiled over in the form of three questions.

1.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to the Bishop?

(And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want the responsibility of his career on our hands.”)

2.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to me?

      (And the answer was, “Because we didn’t want to hurt you.”)

Which inevitably led to question three:

3.      If you knew, why didn’t you talk to him?

(And, sad to say, for that question, none of us had an answer.)

And You Think You’ve Got Marital Problems 9/20/1998

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Hosea 1:2-8, 2:1-4, 14-16; Luke 11:5-13

Given the recent “rush to confession” by public figures of all types and stripes, I suppose it is high time for me to acknowledge that I have placed the same wedding ring on the hands of several different women. I am talking about this ring….my ring….which, as late as last Friday evening, was off my finger and on the finger of another. Which does not make me a bigamist…. or a serial monogamist….but simply a quick thinking (and even quicker acting) preacher.

The explanation is really quite simple. When you marry as many people as I do, sometimes you need to come to their rescue. Like when the maid of honor or the best man forgets the ring, can’t find the ring, or drops the ring between the back of the church and the front of the church. I know that sounds stupid. But nervous people do stupid things. And my job is to minimize the effects of the problem. Which I accomplish by removing my ring and giving it to whoever needs one. It works every time. And I’ve gotten it back every time. So far.

As confessions go, I realize that the one I just made is small potatoes. But I really can’t produce anything that could be published under the heading of “spicy and salacious.” So if you read today’s title and came to hear about my marital problems, I’ll have to disappoint. And if you read today’s title and came to hear about the Clinton’s marital problems, I’ll have to disappoint further. As concerns mine, there’s really nothing to talk about. And as concerns Bill and Hillary….well….I’m not on the list of high profile clergy types (like Jesse Jackson and Tony Campolo) summoned to the White House for intimate pastoral conversation. Not that I’d tell you if I were.

Instead, I rise to talk about Hosea’s marital problems which (as you will see in a moment) were even more painful and public than Sweet William’s. And you will have to take my word for it that I picked this morning’s subject, date and title, at least 30 days before the Starr Report became public. Perhaps I was being prophetic. Which Hosea certainly was.

For he was a prophet….in Israel….in the 8th century BC. Next to Elijah, Hosea is my favorite prophet. For he called it as he saw it….he told it as he lived it….and he was not at all bashful about his belief that God was deeply enmeshed in both the telling and the living.

But first we need to back up and remind ourselves of why prophets arose in Israel in the first place. Which can be explained by the fact that there was a covenant in Israel in the first place. The covenant was between God and the people. But the people kept forgetting it….and breaking it. The covenant was not unlike a deal (of sorts), wherein God said: “Look, here’s what I am going to do for you. I am going to rescue you from bondage. I am going to lead you where you need to go. I am going to help you settle and structure your life once you get there. And I am going to see to it that your children prosper and multiply from generation to generation.” Then God added: “Your part of the deal is to believe and behave” (which is biblical shorthand for saying: “Honor my claim and obey my law.”).

Mark Trotter points out that the contribution of the Hebrew prophets was enormous. For it was the prophets who first defined man’s relationship to God by moral acts (such as ethical conduct), rather than by religious acts (such as sacrificial offerings). Recall Hosea’s 8th century contemporary….the prophet Amos….who thundered: “I hate, I despise your feasts. I take no delight in your solemn assemblies. But let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

Which explains why the prophets were always trying to get people to repent and clean up their acts. Which probably wasn’t any more popular then than now. Most of us don’t like the word “repentance.” Because saying “I’m sorry”….meaning “I’m sorry”….and turning away from the acts that forced the “I’m sorry” in the first place, are not things that are fun to do. But what repentance means is that life can be better than it is now, and there are things we can do….and should do….to make it better.

Most other Middle Eastern religions (at the time of the prophets) did not take history or morality seriously. They did not believe that human beings could influence things for the better (by acting better), or for the worse (by acting worse). They were nature religions. God was the God of nature, not the God of history. Things that were important in nature religions were the rhythms of the seasons and the cycles of sun and moon, seed time and harvest, fertility and infertility, along with deluge and drought. And since human beings couldn’t do much about any of that stuff….I mean, who could make it rain if it hadn’t rained in weeks?….it was assumed in the “nature religions” that only God could improve things. So if you needed rain….if you needed a good harvest….if you needed fertile fields….then you made sacrifices to God. You offered God grain, meat and (in some cases) even children. But then God spoke through his prophets and said: “I hate and despise your sacrifices. Stop offering me these dumb things and start doing the things I tell you to do, and you’ll see how much better things will get in your world.”

It was a hard message. And a blunt message. But it was also a moderately hopeful message. For in castigating the people for bad choices…and urging them toward good choices….the prophets were saying that choice makes a difference. Meaning, by implication, that we can make a difference. It’s not just the moon and the stars. It’s us. So the prophets said: “Shape up, lest there be consequences to your behavior that you won’t want to live with. Which there will be. And it will be your own damn fault.”

Which was, in a nutshell, the prophetic message in Israel. At least it was the prophetic message before Hosea. Prior to Hosea, the covenant (the “deal” between God and his people) was pretty much like a contract. If one party violated it, it was off (as in void….finished…. flushed….done deal). The offended party (God) could take his marbles and go home. But to Hosea….and, subsequently, through Hosea….came the radically amazing notion that even should Israel break the deal, God would hang in there anyway.

Where did Hosea come up with such an idea? Through his own painful marital experience, that’s where. He married an unfaithful woman. There are several interpretations as to how this happened (including the possibility that God told him to marry such a woman). At any rate, her name was Gomer. How’s that for a name? I have a good friend in the ministry whose name is Hosea. But I don’t have any friends (male or female) named Gomer. Yet that was her name. But that wasn’t half of it. For Gomer was a whore. The Bible doesn’t sugar coat it. It says so right up front. At one point it says that she “played the whore,” meaning that she might not have been a card-carrying hooker. For there was, at that time, a class of vocational prostitutes who hung out in Caananite temples. That way, if you went to the temple to pray for a fertile field, you could involve yourself (ritualistically) with a fertile woman. We don’t really know if Gomer was one of these. Maybe she just acted like one of these.

But Hosea married her and she had three children. Chapter One suggests they were Hosea’s children. Chapter Two suggests they may have been other men’s children. But whether or not Hosea conceived them, we know that Hosea named them. For each name was symbolic. And each name revealed the disintegrating nature of Hosea’s marriage to Gomer, while also revealing the disintegrating nature of God’s “marriage” to Israel.

The first son, Hosea named Jezreel. This was probably a variation on the name of the nation (“Jezreel” – “Israel”). The second child, a little girl, Hosea named Lo-Ruhamah. This meant: “I will no longer have pity.” Then followed a third child, a little boy. And Hosea named him Lo-Ammi, meaning: “You are not my people and I am not your God.”

Talk about how tough it is to be a preacher’s kid. Look how tough it was to be a prophet’s kid. A prophet’s kid had to walk around like a billboard, even to the point of being saddled with a name that sounded like a sermon. Imagine Hosea’s little boy going to school….first day….teacher’s calling the roll. “What’s your name, little boy?” “My name is ‘You are not my people and I am not your God.’” I mean, it could turn you into a dropout….from kindergarten.

I figured that Matt Hook….lover of scripture that he is….would give his kids names that sounded like messages from God, once he and Leigh started having children. And when they named their firstborn “Hunter,” I said: “Ah, that’s from the Cain and Abel story in Genesis 4. I get it.” So when Jillianne was born, I figured they’d call her “Gatherer.” But they didn’t. And then they completely missed the boat with Graham and Joy. Think of the Hosea-like possibilities. They could have called Graham “The Lord’s wrath is rising.” And they could have named Joy: “You’re all headed for Hell in a handbasket.” Maybe next time.

At any rate, Gomer (the mother of these kids) was unfaithful to Hosea. She was unfaithful openly. She was unfaithful shamefully. She was unfaithful repeatedly. He pleaded with her. He had the kids plead with her. He exposed and shamed her. He punished and banished her. But he could not completely forget her. Or forsake her. So he pursued her. He wooed her. And then came those beautiful words at the end of the second chapter:

            But look, I am going to seduce her

            And lead her into the wilderness and speak to her heart.

            There I shall give her back her vineyards

            And make of the valley of Achor a door of hope.

            Then she will respond as when she was young.

            And when that day comes, (she) will call me “my husband.”

Which sounds as if they are going back to the place of their courtship, doesn’t it? Back where love began….back where promises were made….back where the future was ripe with hope. Which is what couples do, isn’t it….when trouble comes, and (hopefully) goes. Couples go back to some special place….where they met….where they courted…..where they proposed….or where they honeymooned. They go back to remember and renew. They go back to start over where they started once. People do it all the time.

But note the identity of the lover in the words I just read. The words of wooing sound like Hosea. But the wooer is God and the wooee is Israel. And the place to which Israel is being drawn (or seduced) is the wilderness, where (once upon a time) it was just God and his people.

What is Hosea saying? Hosea is saying: “If you welsh on the deal (the covenant), you will have to pay the consequences. Which means that you will lose your comfortable life. But you will not lose God. For God will be true to his beloved.”

This is one of those “how much more” narratives for which the Bible is famous. For when we read that Hosea stood by….waited for….and sought-to-be-one with his wandering woman, the Bible is saying: “How much more will God stand by….wait for….and seek-to-be-one with you?”

Which leads us from Old Testament to New, and from prophet to parable. In Luke’s little story (11:5-13), a neighbor comes to the door at midnight. Banging on the door, he wakes up the man of the house, crying: “Give me some bread. I’ve had somebody come to visit me and my cupboard is bare.” Which doesn’t exactly please the householder who says: “Hey, it’s midnight. The kids are asleep. The wife’s asleep. I’m asleep. You’re waking up half the town. Go away.” But the neighbor persists. And the text reads: “Because of the knocker’s importunity (which is a five dollar word for ‘making a pest out of himself’), the householder gets up, comes downstairs, opens the door, and gives him three loaves of Jewish rye. Point being: if a sleeping neighbor will eventually open the door to a boorish pest, how much more will God stand ready to open the door to you?”

And why will God do that? Because that’s who God is. And that’s what God does. Let me illustrate. I recently became aware of someone who works for the phone company in the area of customer complaints. Hers is a tough job. I wouldn’t have it. For she must represent the policies of the company, while attempting to be sympathetic to the predicaments of the customer. One day a lady called, professing grave problems with her phone service. My friend said that while it was a bad problem, it did not fall within the guidelines of things customarily handled by the company. In other words, it was the customer’s problem, not hers. But the customer….a widow….living alone….on a fixed income….persisted.

My friend said: “During the conversation, the lady said something that really got through to me.” She said: “I’ve always loved and respected the phone company. Since I was a little girl coming home to an empty house, my mother always said: ‘If I’m not home and you ever have a problem, just call the operator at the telephone company and she will help.’”

My friend said: “At that moment a light went on in my brain. For I realized that this was not merely a dispute over money and service, but a discussion about the character of the company. What kind of company were we? Were we still a company that cared….a company that could be trusted….and a company that valued a long-term relationship with its customer?” And when my friend reframed the question that way, she figured out a way to solve the caller’s problem. Leading me to ask: “How much more will your Heavenly Father do to affirm the long-term relationship He has with you?”

I think you know the answer to that. The Gospel says that God will do anything….and stop at nothing….to woo and win this whore-like bride of a church that never tires of finding lovers with which to go asunder. And you know what that means. As does Greg Jones.

Greg Jones is the new Dean of the Divinity School of Duke University. Recently, he attended an Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church. That Conference, like so many church bodies today, was torn apart by the controversies that divide our church and our nation. At the opening session of the Conference, a spotlight was fixed on a stained glass window that was set in a frame on the stage. Shortly after the opening hymn, someone rose from his seat in the auditorium and threw a brick through that window, shattering it into a thousand pieces. Then followed a time of confession with each worshiper confessing his or her own brokenness.

The next night, as they returned to the auditorium for worship, they were given a fragment of that stained glass. During the service there was an offering. Baskets were passed. Everyone was encouraged to put their piece into the basket. The baskets were then taken up to the altar and poured into a metal pan. When the last basket was emptied, a cloth behind the altar dropped, and there was a cross made of pieces of fragmented stained glass.

Like I said….whatever it takes. That’s what God will do. Whatever it takes.

Note: I am deeply indebted to Mark Trotter (First UMC San Diego) for suggestion of theme and for his helpful understanding of the prophetic role in the light of “nature religion.” The juxtaposition of the Hosea texts with the story of the neighbor who knocked at midnight was suggested by the common lectionary. Will Willimon (Pulpit Resource) suggested the “how much more” theme, in the light of the story of the lady who worked for the phone company.

Catching the Wave 9/13/1998

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Isaiah 51:15, John 4:31-38

Several years ago, I came across an incredible story. Then in April it showed up again in a sermon by Brian Bauknight who preaches to a congregation in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. I have been assured that it is true, even though it has a certain absurd quality to it. It is the story of a 33-year-old truck driver from Los Angeles, a man named Larry Walters. Larry lived in one of those neighborhoods where all of the houses look alike and where all the yards are surrounded by chain link fences. Every Saturday afternoon, Larry had a ritual. He would sit in a lawn chair, consume a six pack of beer, and relax for a couple of hours. Then one Saturday Larry got a bright idea….most likely after consuming the six pack. He decided he would tie some helium balloons to his lawn chair and float himself several feet above his neighbors’ yards.

It should be noted that Larry was a truck driver, not an engineer. Therefore, he was unsure of how many balloons it might take to elevate him above the rooftops. So he purchased 45 weather balloons and filled them with helium. Then he packed some sandwiches and a six pack of beer, adding a BB gun so he could shoot out one or more balloons if he got too high. Then, with the help of neighbors, he tied the balloons to the lawn chair.

At the appropriate signal, the neighbors let go. Larry immediately shot up 11,000 feet. He was so frightened that he never got a chance to shoot any of the balloons with his gun. He was too busy holding onto the lawn chair. Providentially, he was spotted by the pilot of a DC 10, coming into Los Angeles International Airport. The pilot radioed the tower that there was a man in a lawn chair at 11,000 feet, and that he had a gun. Planes were immediately rerouted around the area where Larry was floating. Rescue craft were then sent up and eventually got him down.

He was immediately surrounded by reporters asking him: “Were you scared?”

His reply was an emphatic: “No!”

“Would you do it again?”

Again, an emphatic: “No!”

Which led to a third question: “Why did you do it in the first place?”

To which Larry replied: “Well, you can’t just sit there.”

And he’s right, you know. You can’t. Which can be taken as a warning to individuals. But which should also be taken as a warning to institutions. Which is why last year….on this day….from this place….to this church….I issued a challenge. It came in the form of a goal. A growth goal. A membership goal:

3001 by 2001

In that sermon, I gave a lot of “whys” and a few “hows.” I talked about “slippage” in mainline denominations….in our denomination….in other large Birmingham area churches….and in our church. Then I dared to suggest that this was unacceptable to God, and should not be acceptable to us.

But I don’t want to dwell on that message today. If you missed it….forgot it….or heard it, but didn’t quite get it….you can find copies in the narthex under the title “Bugles In the Afternoon.” Take it home and read it. That way, I can focus on the things that have happened since.

1.      That sermon launched a church-wide conversation.

2.      That conversation led to a unanimous endorsement of the goal at last December’s Charge Conference.

3.      That endorsement mandated the formation of a task force in January….17 members….meeting monthly.

4.      That task force studied a number of things including scripture, history, demographics and other churches.

5.      Eventually, the task force was split down the middle, with one group working on what George Bush used to call “the vision thing.”

6.      Simultaneously, the second group farmed itself out to the Membership and Evangelism Work Area, helping to create a strategic action plan for evangelism.

7.      Collectively, we ignited a “jump start” for Pentecost, pitching a tent on the front lawn and receiving 80 new adult members in the sanctuary.

8.      And in one year (September–September) we raised our membership from 2652 to 2789 (up from 2477 in 1992).

In short, “this old ark’s a moverin’,” as the song lyric says. But there are lingering questions that remain in many of your minds….questions of quantity versus quality, statistics versus spirit, and figures versus faith. Even though I said in last year’s sermon:

Some will say: “Ritter, the goal should be spiritual, not statistical….missional, not institutional. It should be about making disciples, deepening faith, serving the world….that sort of thing.” I couldn’t agree more. But I contend that we will not grow if we do not do these things, and we will not deserve to grow if we fail in any of these things. There is a lot of hunger out there. People are seeking to understand their lives and to give their lives away. And they will gravitate to any church which helps them do both….at a level that is deep rather than shallow, in response to a imperative that is stringent rather than soft.

For I have never bought the argument that, where churches are concerned, small is automatically pure. Most growing churches I have seen have also been giving churches, searching churches, and serving churches. While most downsizing churches have been (for the sake of their survival) naval-gazing churches.

But for those who missed it then….and, perhaps, even now….let me be clear. This goal is about depth as well as breadth. And this goal has as much to do with commitment as it has to do with membership.

Toward that end, we have added Carl Price to an already talented staff. And Carl is about to launch six new Disciple Bible Study groups which will involve nearly 100 people.

Toward that end, we have hired Dick Cheatham (for 12 weeks out of the year), who will help us erase the scandal of marrying people we haven’t properly prepared for marriage, while helping us study our natures, our personal gifts and the meaning of our most important relationships.

And toward that end, the University of Life has now become year-round rather than three weeks in January, along with burgeoning opportunities for adults, youth and children (exemplified by nearly 300 kids at this year’s Vacation Bible School, and a spectacular Youth Encounter Weekend which is going on, at this very moment, with over 100 teens).

But let me back away and frame the issue of deepening commitment differently. Let me introduce to you what I call the “five constituencies of First Church”….each beginning with the letter “C” (community, crowd, congregation, committed, and core).

Community….the out-there-somewhere people. These are the unchurched or the casually churched.…the used to be’s, or never were’s. Some of whom are openly hostile to the faith. Others of whom are quietly indifferent to the faith. Still, we will serve them….in large part by opening our doors to them. We will meet them when times are hard (through programs related to hunger, hopelessness, addiction and divorce, not to overlook grief and funerals….meaning that we will bury them). And we will meet them when times are happy (as when they come to hear a concert, see a play, shop for rummage, or march to the altar….meaning that in addition to burying them, we will also marry them). We probably won’t beat down their doors. But we will make sure that our doors are visibly and comfortably open.

Crowd….the occasionally-here people….the Christmas, Easter, and when-the-kids-need-a-little-water-on-their-heads people. Those in “the crowd” may consist of members or non-members…. believers or non-believers. Do they truly worship on the occasions when they’re here? Darned if I know. But they can watch the rest of us worship. Who knows, it may be contagious. As concerns this group, we will make room for them….and encourage them….but will probably not set our entire agenda around them. Hopefully, something will strike them and they will take a step or two in the direction of greater involvement.

Congregation….the names-on-the-roll people. These are the folks who show up more often and eventually “join the church.” Quite apart from the question of what they believe (which can be worked on), they are united in a desire to belong (which can be rejoiced in). They could be doing more, much more. They probably aren’t. But if faith is a “road trip,” these folks are ripe for movement (if we can convert them from marking time to march time).

Committed….the serious-about-their-faith people. These are folk who are growing, learning, praying and making steady progress toward tithing. If asked, they are likely to define the word “church,” not by where it is they go, but by what it is they do. While we can certainly do a lot for these people, we can do even more with them. Obviously, there is a need to move more congregants to (and through) this circle.

Core….the committed-to-finding-their-ministry people. One thing unites them. Whatever be their talent, they have identified it and matched it to a need. It may be teaching or singing. It may be counseling or cleaning. It may be filling communion cups (or baking communion bread). But concerning each and every ministry of the church, these are those who say: “If it’s going to be, it’s up to me.” Praise God for the core.

Five C’s. Five circles. Five constituencies. Which would seem to suggest five strategies. Jesus, himself, acknowledged differing levels of commitment, tailoring his work to each. To Peter and Andrew at the outset, he said: “Come and see” (as in “check it out”). To Peter and Andrew three years later, he said: “Take up your cross if you would be my disciples.” Jesus didn’t use the same approach with everybody. Instead, he welcomed the community, fed the crowd, gathered the congregation, challenged the committed and discipled the core (which may have been as few as 12, or as many as 70….although some of you don’t like it when I use numbers).

So what are we about? All of the above. That’s what I think we’re about. Which may be a stretch. For while it does not imply being all things to all people, it certainly suggests the need to be a lot of things to many people. And that’s hard to do.

Lyle Schaller talks of the difficulty of being a “Saturday Evening Post church.” Which needs a bit of explaining. Once upon a time, America’s major magazines were general audience magazines, meaning that each issue had something for every taste. There were stories. There were features. There was news and sports. There was fashion stuff and kid’s stuff. There was a humor page. And there was generally a serialized novel. These magazines had names and logos that were recognizable in every living room. You had your Look. You had your Life. You had your Colliers. And you had your Saturday Evening Post.

Now you don’t have any of them. What you have is niche magazines for narrow markets. You have 10 different magazines for boaters. And the same is true for knitters, auto racers and gun collectors. As concerns teenage girls, there are three entirely unique and different magazines. One is for girls 12-14. One is for girls 15 and 16. And as for the magazine Seventeen, that pretty much speaks for itself.

But we are a Saturday Evening Post church….meaning something for everybody….in a world that no longer has a Saturday Evening Post. Like I said, it’s a stretch sometimes.

But let’s add two other considerations before putting this thing to bed. First, my role in all of this. What is it? I suppose I’m a mixture of catalyst, coach, communicator and cheerleader. One thing I must not be, however, is a wet blanket….as in a “dampener of spirits” (human and Holy). Like physicians, preachers should first “do no harm.” But you’d be surprised how many preachers kill the very churches they are appointed to serve.

Which explains, in a perverse way, why I like the story of the preacher who went to the bedside of a seriously ill parishioner named Fred, only to have the patient (in the process of his visit) begin coughing, choking and gasping for air. While thrashing wildly about, Fred reached for a pencil, grabbed a pad, scribbled a message, handed it to the preacher, and died. His preacher folded the message and slipped it in his pocket. Four days later, while conducting Fred’s funeral, he remembered he was wearing the same suit he had worn to the hospital that fateful day. Feeling in his coat pocket for Fred’s last words, he told those gathered for the service of this little epistle…. saying that while he had neglected to read it at the time, he was sure that Fred would want it read now. So opening the paper and speaking without thinking, he read Fred’s last words to the assembled mourners: “Pastor, you’re standing on my oxygen tube.”

Which is the last thing in the world I want to do, here or anywhere. I think most of you know that. And I think most of you trust that. But there’s still a few of you who, while claiming to like what you’ve seen, remain nervous about what you haven’t seen. You are afraid that I have a secret card hidden up my sleeve, just waiting for some unsuspecting moment to lay it on you. Relax. I don’t. What you see is who I am. What you see is what you get. What you see is all there is. Change, when it comes, will come as it has already come…in ways more evolutionary than revolutionary….and more likely by addition than by subtraction.

In fact, some of my more effective efforts hardly even show. Every other place I’ve been, we’ve built a building. Here, we are refurbishing one (from the inside out). In the last five years, we have replaced 153 windows, an air conditioning system and an outdated boiler. All the second floor classrooms are new, with plans to follow suit on the first floor next summer. In the midst of it all, there have been upgrades to the parking lot, the landscaping, the Media Center, the Children’s Chapel, the Wright and Thomas Parlors, along with the computer network. And as of last Wednesday night’s Trustee meeting, you can add an elevator, a handicap restroom, and some hallway reconstruction outside the narthex (the better to get you in and out of the sanctuary without being trampled).

Throw in $750,000 for endowment (in less than three years) and you’ve got a cool $2.1 million…. with no special appeal….no capital campaign….and no per-member assessments. But in those same five years, outreach giving (beyond our doors) has exceeded that figure by 20 percent. As well it should. And as well it will.

But my role pales before God’s role in all of this. Because this is God’s piece of work….both by holding up a yardstick while offering up the Spirit. As concerns the yardstick, consider the measurement of fruitfulness. God expects us to bear fruit.

·         “You did not choose me; I chose you, and appointed you to bear fruit.” (John 15:16)

·         “We pray this in order that you may please the Lord in every way, bearing fruit in every good work.” (Col. 1:10)

·         “This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit. In this way you will show yourselves to be my disciples.” (John 15:8)

·         “Therefore I tell you the Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce….(you guessed it)….fruit.” (Matt. 21:19)

Fifty-five times the Bible speaks of “fruit”….alternating between “fruit” as the numerical growth of the church and “fruit” as the byproduct of a committed spirit.

But God’s yardstick can be met by the church, because God’s Spirit is offered to the church. Only God can make the church grow (I Cor. 3:6). “Only God can churn up the sea so that its waves roar” (Isaiah 51:15). So what’s that about?

The title of today’s sermon is “Catching the Wave.” It comes, of course, from the sport of surfing. About which I know nothing. But every good surfer knows that the one thing he or she cannot do is create a wave. The best that he or she can do is get in position to catch one, once it appears. A lot of books on church growth fall into the “how to build a wave” category. Which can’t be done. Waves are not built by churches. Waves are ridden by churches. God sends them. We ride them. That’s how it works.

Now I will concede that not every time is a propitious time for every church. And not every place is a propitious place for every church. But, if I read it right, this is a propitious time and place for this church. If I can mix a metaphor, the fields are ripe unto harvest (John 4:35) and we are seeing wave after wave of people who are suddenly and strangely receptive to the Gospel.

But you can’t surf without a board. And you can’t surf unless you wade into the water with your board. And you can’t surf if you turn your back on the waves that are rolling, because they don’t resemble the waves that used to be.

But let’s get out of the water and dry off, just long enough for this. My friend, Rod Wilmoth, who preaches at Hennepin Avenue UMC in Minneapolis, tells about the day he went walking in Cincinnati in search of a Methodist church he knew to hold great historic significance. After walking several blocks, he found it. It was set off by a wrought iron fence. But where grass had once grown, there was nothing but dirt. And the doors, which featured gray peeling paint, had clearly seen better days. What’s more, the doors were locked. Just about the time Rod turned to leave, a man dressed in an outfit that resembled the doors came around the corner and said: “What do you want?” He turned out to be the church sexton. So Rod explained that he was a United Methodist preacher who hoped he might see the church. The sexton snarled, “It’s locked,” before adding: “Well, if somebody sent you to see it, I guess I can unlock it and let you in.” But let Rod finish the story.

So on that cheerful note, I was led into the church. It was the dreariest thing I had ever seen. I said: “Who comes here on Sunday morning?” He said: “Hardly anybody. If it wasn’t for visitors, we wouldn’t have anybody at all.” But then he took me downstairs where we rambled around. Finally showing a little animation, he said: “If you have a minute, I’d like to show you something. Just stay right here.”

He walked down a corridor and vanished into the darkness. Pretty soon a light came on and I could see him standing at the entrance to some kind of tunnel. He motioned for me to come. I walked to the end of the hallway and stepped into the tunnel. The concrete ended and I was standing on dirt. Once I got accustomed to my surroundings, I could see that the walls were also dirt. But the ceiling was reinforced concrete. Then the sexton asked: “Do you know where you are right now?” To which I said: “No sir, I don’t.” He said: “You’re standing in the old church cemetery.” Sure enough, I looked around and saw the indentations in the walls where the caskets had been. Then he explained: “A few years ago the city made us get off-street parking. We didn’t have any place to do it except behind the church….and that was the cemetery. So we removed all the caskets, poured reinforced concrete, and that’s our parking lot above your head.” Then, with great excitement, he walked over to the wall and his hand disappeared in one of those long, dark recesses. When it reappeared, he was holding the remains of a human leg bone. Walking up to me and holding it in front of my face, he said: “Isn’t this the most exciting thing you have ever seen?”

Well, I hope not. I pray not. And I will work to high heaven to make sure that, in this church, it is not. But how about you? What excites you? Is it the bleached bones of yesterday….the lawn chairs and six packs of Saturday….or the Spirit-cresting waters of the present day?

Get on board, my friends. This old ark’s a moverin’. And the surf’s up.

Note:  The concept of “five constituencies” is drawn from Rick Warren’s book on Saddleback Community Church entitled The Purpose Driven Church. If memory serves me correct, the phrase “If it’s going to be, it’s up to me” was coined by Robert Schuller. Lyle Schaller discusses the concept of the Saturday Evening Post Church in many of his writings. And I am indebted to my wife, Kristine, and my good friend, Ann Windley, for finding old issues of America’s general audience publications. As for Rod Wilmoth and Brian Bauknight, they are esteemed colleagues holding down great pulpits. As is the case with Errol Smith, who made sure that I had Brian’s story available to me.