About That Messy Business in the Temple 4/2/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 21:12-17

Note:  This message was delivered at First Baptist Church, Birmingham as part of a community-wide Good Friday service. The three-hour format was divided into six segments, with each segment’s message highlighting a different event that took place during Holy Week. The assignment for the 12:30 segment was to address Matthew’s description of the “cleansing of the Temple.”

* * * * *

Interesting, isn’t it, that we’re still talking about the Temple after all these years? I mean, it hasn’t stood since 70 AD. But as a memory for some….and as a dream for others….it looms larger in its non-existence than it ever did when it was here.

I have been there, you know. Four times now. And I could take you, anytime you’d like to go. Not that we’d see all that much….of the original, that is. That’s because there’s but one wall left….a part of a wall, really. Called the Western Wall or the Wailing Wall, it is an incredibly holy sight (even for a non-Jew). I have never failed to approach it without going all the way to the stones themselves, pressing my forehead against the rock in a posture of prayer. And I’ve yet to go to the Wall without taking a few slips of paper from people back in the States…. prayer requests was what they were….to slip between the cracks until God read them or the rains destroyed them.

If you’re a man, you can’t go to the Wall bareheaded. Even Christian men need yarmulkes. Which few have. So they supply you with a cardboard version, free of charge. Which never fits very well. And which never stays on your head very long. But every one of my male friends who has been to the Wall has a picture of himself in a yarmulke, somewhere in a drawer or a scrapbook. I could show you mine. But I trust you won’t ask.

The first time I went to the Wall, I was privileged to witness a bar mitzvah. For there can be no more holy experience for a young Israeli Jew than to be bar mitzvahed in the old city, in the shadow of the Western Wall. There we were, under sunny skies. The young boy was reading from the scroll. The rabbis were standing around him. His father was standing beside him. His brothers and his uncles were standing behind him. There were cousins there….neighbors there….friends of the family there….and me, I was there too. The only thing that distinguished us was our gender. Every last one of us was male. As I remember it, the boy had a mother….some sisters….several aunts….and a passel of girl cousins. But they weren’t as close as I was. They were in the general vicinity. But they were standing beyond a fence. Where they had access to the Wall….on their side. But only on their side. Ancient traditions run deep. Along with ancient divisions.

Why am I telling you this? Because you need to know something about divisions in the Temple, then as well as now. When we talk about Jesus chasing the money changers from the Temple, we not only need to know what he did, but where he did it. And why. Which means that a little stage-setting would seem to be in order.

The Temple, you see, was not one space, but many. Picture it as a series of ascending courtyards. Your first entry was into the outer courtyard….the place that was called the Court of the Gentiles. You could be admitted there….because anybody could be admitted there. But if you were a Gentile….which virtually all of you are….you could not go beyond there. For it was “death” for a Gentile to penetrate further.

Next came the Court of the Women, entered by the arch that they called the Beautiful Gate. Any Israelite could go there. This was followed by the Court of the Israelites, entered by Nicanor’s Gate (a gate of Corinthian bronze which required 20 men to open and shut it). It was in this court that the people assembled for Temple services. Lastly, came the Court of the Priests, into which only the priests might enter. There could be found the great altar of the burnt-offering….the lesser altar of the incense-offering….the seven-branched lamp stand….and the table of the shew bread. It was at the back of the Court of the Priests that the Holy of Holies stood, accessible only to the High Priest, and only once a year. To enter the Holy of Holies was to approach the very throne of God. Which is why legend has it that more than one rabbi attached a rope to his ankle before passing through the veil, thus ensuring that (should he be struck dead by the power of God while praying) his colleagues would be able to pull him out without endangering themselves.

So when Jesus went into the Temple for purposes of “cleansing,” where did he go? Not to the Holy of Holies. Not to the Court of the Priests. Not to the Court of the Israelites. Not even to the Court of the Women. Jesus went into the outer court…the Court of the Gentiles.

And when did he go there? Well, it depends on which Gospel you read. John would have you believe that he went following his temptation in the wilderness….as the very first act of his public ministry. John was probably wrong. But John had good literary reasons for playing fast and loose with history. In today’s texts….Matthew’s text….it is suggested that Jesus entered the Court of the Gentiles on Sunday….Palm Sunday….presumably later in the afternoon. In Mark’s text, Jesus enters on Monday, presumably in the morning (having paid a brief visit….a scouting visit?….the previous afternoon). For reasons too complex to go into here, I like Mark’s chronology. Therefore, let’s assume it’s Monday.

But I’m not quite arranging the stage. First, you need to know something about money changers. They were extremely visible. For they were extremely necessary. Every Jew, you see, had to pay a temple tax of a half sheckel. That tax had to be paid near to the Passover time. About a month before Passover, booths were set up in various towns and villages and the tax could be paid there. But after a certain date, it could only be paid in the Temple. What’s more, it had to be paid in a certain currency. It could not be paid in ingot silver, but only in stamped silver. It could not be paid in coins of inferior alloy or coins which had been clipped. It could be paid in Galilean half sheckels, but Tyrian currency was preferred.

The function of the money changers was to change unsuitable currency into proper currency. For this, a small fee was charged. Which was certainly understandable. And for pilgrims…. flocking to Jerusalem from distant places….exceedingly helpful. The surplus charge was called the Qolbin. Call it “profit.” Or call it a “handling fee.” At issue was not the existence of the handling fee…. but the amount. Quite frankly, some of the handlers took advantage of the time.…the place….the season….and the opportunity….to gouge the masses. All of you have heard the phrase “What the traffic will bear.” And in the Court of the Gentiles at Passover time, the traffic bore plenty.

The selling of doves was another matter. For most visits to the Temple, some kind of offering wasexpected. Doves, for example, were necessary when a woman came for purification after childbirth (which is why Mary and Joseph brought a couple of young pigeons with the baby Jesus, “at the time of her purification”). It was easy enough to buy animals for sacrifice outside the Temple. But any animal offered for sacrifice must be without blemish. Believe it or not, there were official animal inspectors at the courtyard gates. And it was not uncommon for inspectors to be “on the take”….so that they would reject animals purchased elsewhere, thereby forcing persons to the stalls within the Temple itself.

No great harm would have been done if the prices inside the Temple matched the prices outside the Temple. But the price could double, once you passed through the Temple gates. Once more, the opportunity for “rip offs” was magnified. And the fact that abuses had gone on for years did not excuse them in anybody’s eyes….especially Jesus’.

Which is why he reacted as he did. He was not against the practice of money changing or animal selling, per se. What he was against was the greed that gouged those who were simply trying to comply with Temple expectations, the better to perform proper worship. As to what kind of ruckus was caused, one can only imagine. I’ve seen a lot of paintings which suggest swirls of commotion….birds flying everywhere….coins rolling everywhere….people running everywhere ….along with much noise and public consternation. As to whether he upset the entire multitude, who can say? But he upset the people of vested interest….who, as it turned out, were people who were willing to make their displeasure known.

* * * * *

What does all this mean? I’m not entirely sure. But let me offer a trio of suggestions.

First, it depicts Jesus in an exceedingly angry state. Which is strange to see. But which is also good to see. Because I am no stranger to anger. And neither are you. Which means that Jesus is like me. Occasionally. Sort of.

The only difference being that the things that irritate Jesus are not necessarily the things that irritate me. Which may mean that, as irritations go, I ought to elevate mine. Because I certainly wouldn’t want Jesus to lower his.

Second, there is this sharply drawn line between “a house of prayer and a den of robbers.” Which is sometimes overplayed by purists. I mean, we’re never going to separate commerce from the church completely. On any given Sunday morning at First Methodist, you can leave the sanctuary and buy and sell anything in Fellowship Hall. We sell tickets to dinners. We sell silent auction items for the Endowment Fund. We sell baked goods at the Hunger Table. We sell garden produce for urban missions. We sell sponsorships for walkers and fasters. We sell bricks for the courtyard and flowers for the memorial garden. We sell citrus fruit for choir robes. And, at certain seasons of the year, we let the Boy Scouts sell Christmas wreaths and the Girl Scouts sell cookies. When you walk into Fellowship Hall, it can feel like an old-world bazaar. And every few weeks, someone is sure to tell me that I should “do something about the money changers in the Temple.”

But I never have. I have yet to crack the whip. And I have yet to overturn my first table. Not because I have sold out to the market place. But because I understand the text. Some things exist for the legitimate convenience of the parishioners. Which was true in Jesus’ day. And which is true in ours.

But, as a pastor, I must always keep my eye out for excesses….for manipulations….and for corruptions of a good thing. If somebody comes to church to see God….and whatever they experience distorts God….where is there left to go? I do not know the location of the line that separates the holy from the common. But I hope I can still recognize the line that separates the holy from the profane. On the day when such is no longer the case, I trust that someone will tell me that it’s time to sit down (until I regain my sight).

Finally, I would raise this little matter of four words that Matthew drops from the text. When you read the story in Mark’s gospel, the sentence reads: “My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations.” For some reason, Matthew has dropped “for all the nations.” But it is ironic, is it not, that all of this exploitation was taking place in the only section of the Temple where non-Jews could worship. Meaning that the people who were most inconvenienced by the presence of the predators were those who were furthest from the faith and relative novices to its practices.

In our day….and in this community….I keep hearing that certain churches are promoting themselves as being “user friendly” to those who have been “turned off” by other congregations ….other denominations….other preachers. And I find myself pondering: “How did this come to be? Why did these people get so angry? Did I do that? Or did I stand by while others did that?”

I don’t know if I did or not. But something happened in that “outer courtyard” of my church…. when they came and did not stay….sought and did not find….hurt and were not helped….or worshiped and went away disenchanted. Not one iota of which was intentional. Surely, nothing I did turned them off. But do I know that for sure?

* * * * *

Finally, I keep coming back to this thing about “robbers” in the Lord’s house. Which surely there were….surely there are….and surely I have been. But the only saving grace for that horrible thought, is that it was but a matter of days before another robber hung on a cross….adjacent to Jesus….and received the promise of Paradise.

Learning How to Count 12/31/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

New Years Eve

Scripture: Psalm 90

I don’t know about you, but it feels kinda good (at least to this old “sanctuary salt”) to end one millennium and begin another by hanging out in a worshipful place, doing a worshipful thing, with a group of worshipful people. For one thing, it means I will never have to flinch (or fabricate some wild story) when anyone asks: “Who were you with, and what were you doing, when the clock struck midnight?” Instead, I’ll be able to answer: “I was with the friends of my Father….in the house of my Father….doing the business of my Father.” All in all, it has a biblical ring to it. And there’ll be calligraphy on the wall to prove it.

I met my wife in church. For which both of us have always been glad, given that we could have met in any number of less-saintly places. Which, had we owned up to them, would had led you to say “Oh” (as in mock disgust), rather than “Oh” (as in sweet delight).

We could be elsewhere tonight. Like on a mountain, waiting for the spacecraft. Or in the basement, hiding from the Avenger. I am intrigued by the guy from Australia who flew, earlier today, to the Republic of Tonga. Which has one golf course. And which is where he planned to stand….on the first tee….precisely at midnight….ready to hit the first drive of the millennium. More power to him. Here’s hoping he smacked it sweet and straight. I mean, you wouldn’t want to “slice” the first one, would you? Who knows if they grant “mulligans” on Tonga. But even if he hit it straight, how did he ever find it? It being midnight, don’t you know.

This is a good night….whatever it means. Yes, it’s probably a year early. Yes, if you’re measuring from the birth of Jesus, it’s probably several years late. And, given the vagaries of calendar making, every last one of us could be wrong. The practice of numbering years (consecutively) from the birth of Jesus didn’t take hold in western Christendom until the eighth century. Even then, there were various ways of reckoning the start of the year. In England, for example, the year began on December 25. But from the 14th to the 18th century, it began on March 25. It was Pope Gregory who declared January 1 to be the year’s beginning. That happened in 1582. But Great Britain didn’t say, “Sounds like a great idea….let’s do it,” until 1752.

Meanwhile, our Muslim friends keep their calendar in Saudi Arabia….dividing their years into 354 days, starting each year on the first day of Muharram (which, last year, occurred on April 16). In total, their years number from Mohammad’s flight to Medina. Meaning that for Muslims, this is 1420.

For Jews, it’s 5761. We are about a third of the way through their most recent year….the one that began on Rosh Hashanah, September 11-12.

For the Chinese people, this is simply the 17th year of the 78th cycle….meaning that this is yet one more “year of the dragon.” But those of you who ate “Chinese” earlier this evening already know that.

All that aside, this is a big deal. We have collectively agreed to make it so. And since we have to pick a moment in time….sometime….why not let this time be that time (and collectively agree that it feels, for all the world, like the right time).

Donald Ottati writes:

            Reaching January 1, 2000, reminds me of the day the odometer reached 100,000 miles on my ‘73 VW. At a little past 99,998, I parked it in front of the house until my kids got back from school. Then we went for a ride. We hit 99,999 near the corner of Brook and Claremont, turned right onto Laburnum, and right again onto Hermitage. Then, almost precisely at the corner of Hermitage and Nottoway, we experienced the big event. We cheered. We got ice cream. We drove home. My daughter asked: “Where did we live the last time this happened?” My son asked: “Gee, Dad, where are we going tomorrow?”

It sounds like what we’re doing, doesn’t it? Watching the numbers turn. Looking backward. Looking forward. Looking for ice cream. Wondering where we’re going tomorrow.

The backward part has been fun. It’s amazing what you can see….and sort….in the rearview mirror. Time Magazine didn’t just give us a man of the year. Time gave us a man of the century. Here’s to you, Albert. While everybody, it seems, gave us an athlete of the century….except that nobody could agree as to whether that individual was a grand slammer, body slammer or slam dunker. So here’s to all of you guys, too….Bambino, Muhammad, and Michael J. (as in Jordan, not Jackson).

It’s been so much fun, putting the kaleidoscope of history up to the naked eye, then turning it to see what (and who) shakes out:

            Test your memory, my dearie,

            Do you remember when we waltzed to the Sousa band?

            My, wasn’t the music grand….

Yet what we saw was just a pittance, really, in comparison to all there was to see. Even with our eyes wide open, we missed most of it. And forgot even more. What’s more, when you start talking “millenniums” instead of “centuries,” how could we be expected to retain more than a mental thimble-full of that great river of events that went surging past our door. I can fathom what the world was like 100 years ago. But a thousand years….no way.

So let me tell you….just so you’ll know. A thousand years ago….the last time all four numbers changed:

·         The Song Dynasty governed China

·         The Byzantine Empire occupied Turkey and parts of Greece

·         The Holy Roman Empire was ruled, not by Italians, but by German kings

·         Vikings dominated in Scandinavia

·         Mayan city states had fallen in Mexico, to be replaced by the Toltec Empire

·         Islamic Caliphates stretched from India to northern Africa (and up into Spain)

·         Feudalism still dominated France, England and even Russia

·         While the Aborigines in Australia and the Yakut Reindeer Herders in northern Asia dominated their respective regions in ways that were still largely unstructured and apolitical

One thousand years ago, the world’s largest and most prosperous city was Cordoba (in Moorish Spain), closely followed by Kyoto, Baghdad and Constantinople. And there’s not a person in this room, tonight, who could have named two of those four, let alone all four.

My point being, if we can’t see backward with any degree of clarity and understanding, what makes us think we can see forward with any greater measure of effectiveness? Not that we won’t keep trying. There are far more people (this New Year’s) who are into prognostications than are into resolutions. Standing in the supermarket looking at The Star, I saw it predicted (in bold print, no less) that we can expect to see Rosie O’Donnell grow thin, Ally McBeal grow fat, the Abominable Snowman, Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster reveal their identities on the very same day, and learn that the Gypsies are really the descendants of the lost tribes of Israel.

Needless to say, I did not buy The Star, The Enquirer, or that wonderful little book, Exciting New Millennium Prophesies and How They Will Change Your Life Forever….which was on sale for $1.49 (20 cents more in Canada). What will be, will be. And while, as a Christian, I will try to shape it….I will not try to guess it.

As concerns “signs of the times,” most of us see the same ones. But we weigh their importance differently. Personally, I resonate to Thomas Long’s idea that we are living within the dual shadows of “the golden arches and the Uzi.” The “golden arches” image comes from a New York Times essay by Thomas Friedman entitled “The Golden Arches Theory of Conflict Prevention.” In his essay, Friedman notes that no two countries, possessing a McDonald’s franchise, have every gone to war against each other. The theory being that a nation can support a McDonald’s restaurant only when it has reached a sufficient level of economic development and political stability which, in turn, makes war unattractive to its people.

But over against all of that stands “the symbol of the Uzi”….that automatic assault weapon which is the image of random and unsettling violence. My daughter, who has a lot of things “going right” in her life right now, said just a few short nights ago: “Dad, I can’t remember a time in my life when I felt more certain about my situation, yet more unsettled about my surroundings.” Whereupon she….who fears nothing vocational, educational, relational or spiritual….said: “Is it just me, or do other people worry about the randomness of other people’s rage, and the aimlessness of other people’s anger?”

Prosperity versus protest. Development versus disruption. Big Macs versus Uzis. We Christians don’t know what the future holds….at least, the short-run future. There are promises. And promised lands. But, as Moses discovered, a lot of us will still die on the wrong side of the river.

“But,” cries the Gospel, “nothing….not one sublime or stinking thing….shall separate us from the love of God.” Not death. Not life. Not spiritual stuff. Not physical stuff. Not random powers. Not muscled principalities. Not anything happening now. Nor anything which may happen tomorrow. Yea, nothing shall separate us from the love of God, in Christ Jesus our Lord.

So what do we do? We mark time and take steps. Just like we’re doing now. But we do so with a confidence that the rest of the world lacks. That, wherever this is going, God is in it. And wherever we are going, God is in us.

“So teach us to number our days,” says the psalmist. Not so as to prove that we are good at math, but to prove that we are good at life. The purpose of“numbering” is not to arrive at a sum….but to arrive at something….or someone. In a world where far too many count the hours, the secret is in living hours that count. And then enjoying them. Beyond measure.

I recall the fellow who scrimped, saved, then sailed to the Bahamas. Looking out of his hotel room on the first morning, he discovered that the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the temperature was climbing into the seventies. Down to the beach he went, thinking: “This is living.” Looking around, he saw everybody sitting on comfortable beach chairs and thought: “That looks relaxing. I wonder where you get one?” Whereupon a man came along renting beach chairs. “How much?” asked the vacationer. “Fifty cents,” responded the retailer. “That’s too high,” said the man. “For fifty cents I can sit on my towel the way I intended to.”

When he got back home, however, he couldn’t rid himself of that moment. “That was a crazy decision,” he said. “I spent a small fortune to make it to the islands, only to end up quibbling over fifty cents for a beach chair.”

But I know people like that. And I’ve been people like that.

My friends, time is an incredible gift. And God is an incredible giver. So measure and calculate it if you must. But remember that measuring things is for the world of the flesh. Enjoying them is for the world of the Spirit.

I am told that one or two generations back, our ancestors (especially those who hailed from the South) used to enjoy a splendid Sunday afternoon activity they called “going marveling.” They’d go to church. They’d come home from church. They’d cook dinner. They’d finish dinner. Then someone would say: “Let’s work off all this food by going marveling.” And into the countryside they’d go. Looking at flowers and leaves….shells and streams….stuff on rocks….stuff under rocks. Then they’d come home and tell those who hadn’t gone about the things they’d had an opportunity to see, but missed.

I remember Sundays like that when I was a kid. I always numbered myself with the ones who went, rather than the ones who waited (“Oh, you folks go; we’ll stay here and do up the dishes”).

Sundays are different now. And I can’t remember the last time I went walking in the countryside. But I’ve learned that you can go marveling almost any place….almost any day….with almost anybody. Or alone.

But can you go marveling in a millennium?

For the life of me, I can’t see why not. And for the life of you, I can’t see why not, either.

Note:  Debts are owed to Fred Craddock for his remembrance of “going marveling”….to DonaldOttati for his description of the day his odometer passed the 100,000 mile mark….and to John Killinger for his story about the man who wouldn’t pay fifty cents for a beach chair. Much of the factual material in the early part of the sermon was also supplied by Donald Ottati in his excellent millennial essay in the year-end issue of The Christian Century.

Is There Life After High School? 6/13/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  I Corinthians 1: 18-31, John 6: 1-14

I do not know when life begins.  I think it was George Burns who, one day, put down his cigar long enough to suggest that life begins at eighty.  I think it was Art Linkletter, among others, who argued that life begins at forty.  There are a lot of kids who think that life begins when they get out of the house, andmore than a few parents who agree with them.  And I have a good friend who contends that life begins when the last kid leaves home and the dog dies. Which explains why, when his youngest son graduated from high school, I suggested that somebody ought to sniff Chipper’s dog dish from time to time.

Seriously, let me begin with an apology for the “cute-sy” nature of my sermon title. The implied question is rhetorical. It is also dumb. Of course there is life after high school. There is also life after college. There is life after graduate school. There is even life after ordination. There is life after thirty. There is life after forty. And, God be praised, there is even life after fifty-eight. 

But my title does have something behind it. Life’s major transitions always have a hint of death in them. Before one can graduate to something, one must graduate from something. And where there are separations, there are bound to be separation anxieties. For every graduate who shouts: “I can’t wait to get out of here,” or “Free at last,” there is another graduate who says (so that no one can hear): “I am afraid to leave.” More often than not, those feelings reside in the same person. My son’s high school class President, a lovely girl named Dawn Sherman, said, in the midst of a marvelous graduation speech: “Do you realize that tonight is the very last time we will ever all be together again?” And the sound of 325 people sucking in their breath at the same time, spoke with an eloquence that more than matched her words.

To be sure, there is life after high school. But there is just enough death in the transition, so as to make whatever comes nextlook a little bit like being reborn. The whole business of graduation is powerful and promising. But it ismore than a little bit painful.

And what is ityou are graduating to? There are some who would say that you are graduating to the “real world.” But I would suggest that such thinking is fraudulent and badly in need of correction. Allow me to volunteer for the job of Corrections Officer.

The “real world”  is not out there!  If it is, what does that have to say about your world? Are you living in a fantasy world? A play world? A preparatory world? There are few things I like less about the ministry than the suggestion that members of the clergy have no working knowledge of the “real world.” And you, dear graduates, should be no less offended at such a suggestion than I.

To graduate from high school means, among other things, that many of you have already:

·         coped with the divorce, or severe discord in the marriage of your parents.

·         watched an ambulance pull up to your high school and haul off one of your friends.

·         watched them close your school….or conduct a day’s worth of classes under armed guards….because one of your classmates phoned in a threat to blow it up or shoot it up.

·         found at least two jobs….quit at least one job….and groused about the wages you received at all of them.

·         experienced your first (ever) brush with failure or rejection.

·         confronted the blunt edge of your own limitations.

·         didn’t get the grade you wanted….the part you wanted….the letter of acceptance you wanted….the date you wanted….or the position on the team you wanted.

·         broken a law, gotten a ticket or crunched a fender.

·         caused someone close to you to cry, curse, or wring their hands.

·         been forced to make some rather personal decisions (under the influence of some very powerful pressures) about whether you would drink too much, go too far or stoop too low….only to discover that destiny (as a teenager) often turns on what you uncap, uncork, or unzip.

If those things don’t constitute slices of the real world, I don’t know what the “real world” looks like. So, if someone tells you that you are not a part of the real world yet, what they mean is that you are not fully earning your way. Which is probably true. But it carries with it the extremely dangerous assumption, that the only thing separating you from the real world is money and the fact that you are not making very much of it. As assumptions go, that is not a very good one to get trapped into believing. For it implies that retirees, housewives, and others who are not a part of the full-time work force, are also without a position in the real world. But that is another sermon, and in order to hear it you will have to come back another day.

Whether or not you are making any money, you are learning a great deal. And you must have gotten to be halfway decent at it, oryou would not be graduating. So do not let anyone disparage that (either graduating or learning). I issue that as a warning. For I fear that serious learning is somewhat under fire these days, especially if there does not appear to be an obvious and immediate connection between serious learning and financial benefits to be gained therefrom.

Much of Christianity (which certainly ought to know better) has climbed onto this rolling train of anti-intellectualism. This has become attractive to some Christians, because the faith they preach cannot stand the scrutiny of too-scholarly a glance. And they know it. “Don’t go to school,” some churches tell their would-be pastors. “It’ll only ruin you.” And I can understand how learning can get a bad press. After all, the Apostle Paul reminds us that knowledge is one of the things that will pass away, while love is one of the things that will abide. Elsewhere in his letter to the Corinthians, Paul suggests that“God has made foolish the wisdom of the world.” It is Paul’s way of telling us that knowledge is not God, and that reason has its limits. After all, if you dissect a frog, you will have a great deal of information on how frogs are put together. But you won’t have a frog anymore. And if you subject your faith to too much dissection, you might not have a faith anymore. Or so the argument goes. 

Paul, of course, is talking about one particular group of Greek-Christians who are much into mind games. He is talking about people who claim they can think their way propositionally, step by logical step, to God. But Paul saysit won’t work. Logic can lead you a lot of places. But logic will never lead you, no matter how carefully crafted it may be, to a God who loves.  Although a cross will.

But having spoken his piece about the folly of worshipping knowledge, Paul is not saying we ought to be fools. Neither is he writing a brief in defense of stupidity. For the human mind is a wonderful thing. I would submit that the human mind may be the most indisputable proof that a Divine Mind is guiding the unfolding process of creation. As Harold Kushner writes, “When you realize that human beings are born weaker, slower, more naked (in terms of protective body hair) and ever-so-much more vulnerable than most other creatures, you come to understand that apart from our intellect….and the ability to apply it….we wouldn’t be able to survive at all.” Or, as my late Aunt Marion used to say to people in perilous predicaments: “You dumb cluck….why don’t you use the brains God gave you?” Now I doubt that my Aunt Marion ever went to church a Sunday in her life. But, at that point, she was a pretty fair theologian.

But enough, dear graduates, from the soapbox. Let me turn, in closing, to a different matter.  Allow me to ask what you are going to do with all this present and future learning. I am talking “vocation” here. Not vacation (as in chilling out….kicking back….blowing the summer off…. sleeping ‘til noon), but vocation (as in what are you going to do with your life, most days, from nine o’clock to five). 

Vocation is a fancy word I use to describe “the work I do.” But what I would have you remember is that the linguistic root of “vocation” is “vocare.” Which is not so much the work I do, as the call I answer. 

For I still believe that God calls people. I believe he calls them to do all kinds of things. And while I don’t have time this morning to flush out all of the ways that works, I do have some “feel” for how it works in my business….the ministry business.

God nudges people in all kinds of ways. Come fall, both Pam Beedle-Gee and Sarah Moore are heading for seminary. Pam is going to Garrett. Sarah is going to Duke. Sarah is young….just starting out. Pam’s young at heart….but (as years go) has already circled life’s track a few times.  In Sarah’s case, God used some great experiences working with our youth group to divert herfrom the world of architecture. In Pam’s case, God used some great experiences in Girl Scouts, in Bible study, and as a two-year member of our Costa Rica work team to convince her and John (in Abraham-like fashion) to put the house up….load the wagon up….get her hopes up….and head (three or four years down the road) for some church’s pulpit.

And time would fail me, were I to tell you Todd Query’s story. Todd is heading down the home stretch, meaning that he will soon complete his final year at Methesco (in Delaware, Ohio) and wait to see what God will do with him next. Todd’s story is different. But then, every story is different. Especially Elmer’s. Having just finished his career in seminary, Elmer will start his career in ministry a couple of weeks from now. The church is in Croswell. Where I hope they are patient. Because Elmer is still getting his English whipped into shape. Elmer was born in Honduras with incredible health problems. More than once, he was written off as dead. But, as he puts it: “My mother’s faith in the Divine Doctor established my life.” After graduating from college in Honduras with a degree in Elementary Education, Elmer taught for awhile. But political instability in his country led him to set out for America. He landed in Texas….as an “illegal.” So he flew to New York City….as an “illegal.” The person he stayed with in New York finally said he couldn’t put him up any more. So Elmer went to the bus station, plunked all the money he had on the counter, and said: “Where go?” The agent on the other side of the counter counted all Elmer’s money, consulted his book of fares and said: “Detroit.”

Arriving here, he sat down on a bench until someone said: “Where are you going?”
“Detroit,” Elmer answered. “You’re in Detroit,” the man said, and pointed him in the general direction of Vernor Highway. Which was how it came to pass that Elmer Armijo wandered into our Methodist Church in Mexican Village….the one we call El Buen Pastor (the Good Shepherd)….and which is where he met Reverend Saul Trinidad, whose first words to him (in Spanish) were: “Brother, are you hungry?” 

Eventually, Elmer landed a place to live, a place to work, a green card to make him legal, and a set of friends to make him loved. All of which came through the church….where he worshipped….where he worked….and where God found him (not that God had ever lost him) and tabbed him for ministry. Now, years later, he has jumped through all the hoops, cut through all the tape, passed through all the classes, and (a few week’s back) when Elmer said, “Where go?”, the Bishop said: “Croswell.”

I don’t know what you are being called to. I don’t know what is going on inside of you at this present moment of your life. I don’t know what is cracking loose in you…. or comfortably congealing in you.  I don’t know what major idea is playing with you…. toying with you…. or drumming its fingers for attention on the armorplate that covers the soft underbelly of your soul.  But I do know that whatever that idea is, you had better listen to it.

Permit me to return, once again, to the vocation I know best. And if you will be so kind,      permit me to be momentarily crude in order to make a more lasting point. Allow me to quote for you, Rev. Tex Sample, who has done so much to touch my heart. Said Tex: “The call to the ministry is a lot like the feeling you get when you are about to throw up. You know you can put it off for a while….but sooner or later….”

My friends, there are many magnesias that will coat your call, so that it cannot be heard or heeded. Throw them away. Then ask yourself: “What is it that I have to keep swallowing back, lest it bubble up to the place where I can no longer ignore it.” For as crude as that image is memorable, there is one place where it breaks down. For the true calls of God (to ministry….or to anything else) tend to bubble up as joy.

I once had a friend who had reached a crossroads in her life. This way or that? This job or that?  And I couldn’t make her decision for her. Nor was she asking me to. What I did was help her to listen to herself….to what she was saying about both alternatives. Or, more to the point, to the way she was saying it. For no matter how logically she tried to present both opportunities, there was an unmistakable bubble of joy that accompanied her telling of the one, that I found impossible to trace in her telling of the other.

So, my graduating friends, listen to your stomachs. Then listen to your joy. Because somewhere between nausea and laughter, you may hear something you can put off for awhile. But sooner or later….

How Much Longer Do I Have To Hang In There? 5/23/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture:  Malachi 2:13-16, II Corinthians 4:7-12

The prompting of this morning's title led a friend of mine to recall an ancient memory, concerning the summer he and his friends vacationed on the shores of Lake Michigan. Bored by the third day, the three boys were hungry for something to do. Which was when they found the boat. Half-buried in the sand, it had been clearly abandoned the previous winter. But they dug it loose, cleaned it up, and created something of a gummy-gluey mixture to caulk the cracks. Then they named it "Hell's Mess."

The next morning they put out to sea, taking oars, lunches and three coffee cans (just in case).  I was tempted to ask: "Just in case what?" But I kept my mouth shut and let my friend get on with his story. Since everybody wanted to row first, they more-or-less tried doing it simultaneously.  This worked for a while, at least until the gummy-gluey stuff failed and the boat began to leak.  Without any discussion about the need to shift responsibilities, first one boy and then a second took coffee cans and began to bail. My friend, who truly merits the term "eternal optimist," kept on rowing toward the state of Wisconsin. But eventually, even he dropped his oars and picked up a can.

In similar sequence (and with still no discussion over who next needed to do what), first one boy and then the second put down his can, jumped over the side, and began half-swimming, half-pushing the boat toward shore. My friend said: "All the while I kept bailing, confident that each coffee can was going to be the one that stemmed the surge and turned the corner." Then he added: "But that's just my nature. I'm generally the last one to bail out on anything."

So it goes in life. Some of us keep on bailing, after others of us have long-since bailed out. Each of us addresses the hopelessness of a given situation at our own pace. For some it becomes a gut-wrenching decision.

Consider the 84-year-old man who desperately wanted to join my church in Livonia. For years he lived in our neighborhood, attended many of our functions, and became acquainted with our people. Yet every Sunday morning he got in his car and drove 20 miles to a dying, inner-city church. The neighborhood had changed. The membership had changed. Finally, he was the last old member left. He felt he couldn't leave as long as they needed him, although it was far from certain that the newly-appointed pastor valued or even understood his sacrifice. His story was a little bit heroic and a little bit sad. When it gradually became more sad than heroic, he began to ask me with increasing frequency: "How much longer do you think I should hang in there?" And as much as I loved him as a friend and wanted him as a parishioner, I never knew quite what to answer. For you see, the building to which he was driving so religiously each Sunday morning was my boyhood church.

Or consider my preacher-friend….closer to 54 than 84….who recently raised the same question.  He's been at it for 28 years (of which, by normal human reckoning, there have been but a handful of good years.) He moves often. But he never moves up. No church keeps him very long. No church pays him very much. He knows but one way to do ministry….and figures that the "day" for his "way" passed several years ago. He also figures that he's "too close to the end" to learn a new way. On bad days, he worries that he's doing the church more harm than good. On good days, he remembers his promise to God and counts the years he has left to be a "good soldier."

Which, I would have to say, has not been all that difficult for me. As commitments go, I am still serving the same Lord….in the same profession….for the same denomination….with the same woman….as when I first began. Most of which has been good. Little of which has been hard.  But others have not found it so. Some have broken commitments they have made. And some are, even now, being broken by them. Meaning that there may be (much as I would wish it otherwise) times for walking away. And the church which does not understand this will, over time, become one of the places that is walked away from.

To those who have already walked away, the church has tended to say one of two words….either a word of rejection (as in "sorry that you had to leave, but there could no longer be a place for you here"), or a word of reconciliation (as in "God loves you and we love you; come, let us begin your reconstruction together"). I would hope that we are a church of the latter word, rather than a church of the former word. But I fear that in our confusion over what to say, sometimes we say nothing, and our silence is viewed as one of rejection rather than reconciliation.

But what about those who are still considering walking away….giving up….letting go? Do we have any word for them which will help them in their agonizing? I have yet to hear any pulpit address that question. I have wrestled with such issues for a long time. Only now am I beginning to develop a set of guidelines which make sense to me. In fact, what I am about to say is still so unformed, that I wouldn't want to lump my suggestions under the heading of "guidelines" at all.  Instead, I would set them before you as "considerations" on the way to a hard decision.

So let's assume that you presently find yourself in the predicament I describe. Let's assume that a commitment that once seemed "right as rain" now seems "dry as dust." Let's assume that you are feeling both burdened and pained. And let's further assume that, at long last, you have sighted a door….or a sign (hinting at a door)….that reads "this way out." How do you know whether it is time to leave? 

I am going to suggest seven windows through which to view that question. None is meant to stand alone. And all, taken together, may not make a compelling case. In sharing them, I am not going to say a great deal about them. Instead, I'm going to read them….close with an Ari Goldman story….and then leave you to "chew."

It may (just may) be time to think about leaving….

1.    When you are no longer doing yourself any good. When you are experiencing

no good….feeling no good….and being led to believe that, at the very deepest

level of your being, you probably are no good.

2.     When you are no longer doing anybody else any good. When there is little

evidence that anybody is better off as a result of your persevering in marriage,

ministry, or whatever. When no one who is counting on your "hanging in there"

will be appreciably harmed if you don't.

3.    When all that seems to be resulting from your efforts is more harm than good.

When you find yourself speaking and acting in ways that are more indicative of your worst self than your best self. And when, in the act of persevering, you find

yourself becoming more and more perverse.

4.     When you are hurting the body….by being tense all the time….sick much of the

time….abused some of the time….and self-destructive in the darkest of times.

5.        When you are killing the soul, by the fact that more is consistently going out from

you than is coming back to you.  When you are underfed….undernourished….

and withering (as they say) on the vine.

6.                  When you are the only one who seems to care, to the point of discovering that

without a mutuality of effort, it is hard to accomplish anything alone.

7.         When, having prayed to God, it seems that God is no longer giving you the

             strength to stand. As to when that point is, I don't really know. But I suppose

             it is the point when you find that you are no longer standing.

It should be obvious that these are some tough considerations. It should be equally obvious that they can be applied to any number of stay-or-leave possibilities. But since the most common such arena is that of marriage and divorce, let's pull this together around that issue. How do you leave a lover? There must be "Fifty Ways To Leave A Lover," says Paul Simon.

            Slip out the back, Jack.

            Get on the bus, Gus.

            Make a new plan, Fran.

            Toss in the key, Lee.

            And get yourself free.

And for many, it would seem as if it were just that easy. It's not, of course. And one suspects that Paul Simon knows it. Ari Goldman certainly does. Ari Goldman is an Orthodox Jew….former religion editor of the New York Times….mid-life Harvard Divinity School enrollee….published author (The Search for God at Harvard)….and himself, a child of divorce. Listen to him on the latter subject, some twenty years after the fact.

To my mind, divorce is a deplorable breach of contract for which children shouldbe allowed to sue. Consider the facts. Two people, with the best of intentions, agree to create a human being. They promise to give it love, a home, security and happiness.  Then something goes awry.  They find that they really hate each other or cannot live with each other. But, in separating, they put themselves first.  They forget about the contract they have with the child. They rationalize that this new state of affairs will surely be "best for the children." Yet they never ask the children.

Didn't my parents, by divorcing, spare me a home where fighting and anger were the regular modes of communication? Not necessarily. For I believe that as in-compatible as they were then (and remain to this day),  they could have learned to stop shouting and slamming doors.  At least they could have learned all of that more easily than I was able to learn to be a child of divorce.

I feel the force of that. I hear the pain of that. I'm not even sure I know what to make of that. I am certain that Ari Goldman's parents would have written the story differently. They probably had good reasons for leaving. But there were still three Goldman boys who felt that their marriage, bad as it was, was still good for something. Namely, it was good for the boys.

And, employing my list of seven considerations (especially number 2), minor children are always enough reason to "keep on keeping on." Especially when the issue is marital happiness.… or lack thereof. To the lady with three kids who wanted to know if divorce is justified, seeing as how she no longer loves their father, the answer (from the church's perspective) is a no-brainer.  Of course it's not.  

Or consider the mother who came late of an evening to the parsonage after I had preached a sermon earlier that morning entitled, "How Many Times Do You Take The Prodigal Back?" She poured out the story of this kid.…early twenties….drop- out….jobless….brushes with the law…. bouts with addition….and a growing flirtation with the neo-Nazi movement. This kid was a real pain in the house, not to mention other areas. But she finally reached the end of her rope. She wanted to change the locks. She also wanted to know what I thought. "I'm tired of hanging in there," was the way she put it. And while she was talking to me in my study, the kid saw her car in my driveway, causing him to take his truck and do a lawn job all over mygrass.

Or consider a divorced friend of mine who is currently attending services at what I euphemistically refer to as "The Church of What's Happening Now." He likes it because the minister is liberal….more liberal than me. His complaint with other churches is that they make him feel guilty. To be specific, they make him feel guilty about his divorce. It's not that they say so in so many words. "It's just part of the package," is how he puts it. He believes that when the church lays on all that "'til death do us part" language….at a time when most people don't understand such commitments (or themselves for that matter)…. the church is setting people up for a fall. In other words, if the church tells you that you are supposed to hang in there forever, and you can't, the church is partly to blame for what happens. To be sure, the church isn't responsible for your divorce. But it's at least partly the church's fault that you feel so darn bad about it afterward.

And time would fail me, were I to tell you of others who have asked, in the wake of a difficult marriage….a difficult family situation….a difficult friendship….a difficult calling….or some other once-happy commitment gone sour…."How much longer do I have to hang in there?"

It's one of the toughest questions I face as a pastor. For to a society that seems to regard commitments as hastily-purchased articles of clothing which can be taken back to the "return desk" at will (and for virtually any reason), I find myself wanting to say some hard-line words about perseverance and permanence. But to my struggling parishioners, whose pain I have borne, whose burdens I have shared, and whose guilt level is already such that I would rather not add any more to it, I find myself wanting to say: "Sometimes it's all right to walk away." It's the age-old debate, so familiar to everyone in my profession. When do you preach law? And when do you preach grace?

For it is clear that ours is a hard-line, high-expectation gospel. It asks of us more than the world does. It expects of us more than the world does. It thinks nothing of requiring that we go beyond convenience….beyond comfort….even beyond happiness….in holding fast to the deepest commitment in our lives. The term "second mile" was coined to describe a level of perseverance which is clearly out-of-the-ordinary for the average bloke, but well within the scope of what is expected of Christians. Much of the advice in Paul's letters takes the form of encouragement,  offered to those who are about to drop out, fall away from, or quit on some significant venture.  To which Paul's word….simply and repetitively given….is "Don't." 

Concerning the marriage commitment, Paul says (in capsule form): I'm not really much in favor of marriage for myself, but if you get yourselfin that state, you ought to stay in that state. Jesus' own anti-divorce word is as strong a word as he delivers to anybody about anything. And the number of New Testament warnings about "falling away" convey an impression that treating commitments lightly is much frowned upon. The ethic of the first-century church is clearly a "perseverance ethic," to the degree that the great festival "Te Deum" of the early church exalts both "the glorious company of the apostles" and "the goodly fellowship of the martyrs." And the ultimate model of the Christ-like life is that we who walk in the way of Jesus are following the one who hung-in-there until he hung- up- there!

Still, people leave. They leave justifiably or not. They leave with an eye to the guidelines or with a blatant disregard for guidelines. They leave after careful planning or on a whim in the middle of the night. Whatever be the case, they let go. They split. They cease hanging in there. They stop bailing and bail out. Are they bad people? Should guilt consume them? Should censure be visited upon them? Should vengeance be taken against them?

Listen to Ari Goldman:

For years I harbored a fantasy that I would one day get married and invite all my relatives on both my mother's and father's sides to a festive wedding banquet and it would be up to me to make the seating arrangements. My mother and my father would be at the same table. My aunt, who for years filled my ears with ugly gossip about my grandmother, would be seated next to her. The family members who disliked each other the most would have to look at each other, forcing them to smile and be polite. The main course would be rib steak and the table would be set with steak knives so sharp that they would reflect the light dancing off the chandeliers. Then, in the middle of the meal, just as the family (in the midst of their collective politeness) would be lifting their knives to cut into the steak, I would sneak outside and pull the main power switch. Suddenly the hall would be plunged into total darkness. And I would sit back and see who, if anyone, would survive.

It's an interesting fantasy. But not a very biblical one. For time and again, Jesus suggests consideration of a similar fantasy….a wedding feast. And Jesus says that when everything is the way that God intends it to be, everybody is going to be there….

·         the saint and the sinner

·         the just and the judged

·         the righteous and the unrighteous

·         those who abandon ship early and those who are bailing yet

·         the leavers and the left

·         his side, her side

·         the right side, the left side

·         the inside and the outside

·         Paul Simon…. Carly Simon….Simple Simon….Ari Goldman.

And at the dramatic moment we shall all be plunged into light (not darkness) and will use our razor-sharp steak knives on the succulent ribs of the fatted calf rather than on the cold, hard hearts of each other.

And this shallhave been made possible—not because we hung in there with each other—but because God (in His infinite mercy) hung in there with us.

                                                                                                            Amen.