The Fear of Being Close 2/14/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures:  Luke 8:43-48, John 1:43-46

Although I make no apologies for the title, my sermon has absolutely nothing to do with deodorants, antiperspirants, mouthwashes or hygiene-related toiletries of any kind. If the purchase a few chemicals will help you draw closer and fear less, be my guest. Now that I’ve got that out of the way, let me tell you a pair of stories….one, biblical….the other, personal.

The first comes from the opening chapter of John’s gospel. I alluded to it briefly on Christmas Sunday. But not for the reasons that interest me today. You will remember the setting. Jesus is choosing disciples. Already chosen are Andrew, and Andrew’s brother Simon. In John’s gospel, Jesus immediately changes Simon’s name to “Peter.” In Matthew’s gospel, Peter doesn’t get his new name for 16 chapters and two and a half years. But this is not Matthew’s account. This is John’s.

The next day, it’s on to Galilee. Jesus, Andrew and Peter are walking beside the sea. Which is a lake, really….given that the Sea of Galilee barely measures 14 miles top to bottom and 8 miles, side to side. There, beside the Galilean lake, Jesus meets Philip. The town is Bethsaida, which literally means “house of fish”….just as Bethlehem literally means “house of bread.” At any rate, when Jesus meets Philip (the Bethsaidan), he says to him: “Follow me.” Which Philip does. And whether you think it happened just that quickly….or whether you think this is John’s one-sentence condensation of a three hour conversation….I will leave up to you. For today’s purpose, it matters little.

That’s because I am not primarily interested in Philip. I am primarily interested in Nathanael….who comes next. But I need Philip to get to Nathanael. Literally. Jesus finds Philip. Philip finds Nathanael. Philip tells Nathanael about Jesus: “Look, Nat, I found the main man….the right guy….the one of whom Moses and the prophets wrote.”

Color Nathanael lukewarm. In fact, I can’t make out what Nathanael says next. Because John doesn’t print what Nathanael says next.  But when I take my head out of the Bible and put my ear to the ground, it sounds like a series of questions.

            Who did you find?

            What is his name?

            Where is he from?

            Who are his people?

Which Philip answers as succinctly as he can.

            Jesus is his name.

            Nazareth is his place.

            Joe and Mary are his people.

To which Nathanael says: “Big deal” (although John cleans it up to read: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”). Which could just as well be translated: “Can anything good come out of Ecorse….Centerline….Paint Creek….Copper Harbor?” And what does Philip say to that? Nothing. He simply extends an offer: “Come and see. Check it out. Look him over.” And that’s pretty much it. But I’ll return to it later. For the moment, file it. But don’t forget it. Definitely, don’t forget it.

Now to the personal story. Most of you know that I spent a number of years at Yale. What many of you do not know is that I have, on a few occasions, returned to Yale for its annual Convocation (the better to see old friends and hear new ideas). The Yale Convocation is a four-day event at the Divinity School. Normal classes are suspended. Special seminars are offered. World-renown speakers are invited. And the gems in the schedule are a pair of endowed lectureships (which almost always result in books to be published, once they are crafted as speeches to be delivered).

Therefore, no one attends blindly. Much is known about who one will hear….and what one will hear. Which I tell you, merely to set a stage. On this particular occasion, I traveled to New Haven drooling over the opportunity to hear the Beecher lecturer, Krister Stendal of Harvard. Now deceased, Stendal was a Lutheran from Sweden, who, better than anyone, knew how to convert New Testament texts into present-day sermons. But as excited as I was to hear Stendal, I was indifferent (even to the point of being uncomfortable) at the prospect of hearing the Taylor lecturer, Dorothee Soelle of West Germany. For I knew her to be something of a saber-rattler in ecclesiastical circles….a lady famous for writing theology from the starting point of liberation perspectives (oppression, being her primary sin….emancipation, her primary goal….and empowerment, her primary strategy for attaining it).

But let me back up. You need to understand that, in the last quarter century, liberation has become a major motif in theology. This is especially true of theology written by oppressed persons (like Hispanics, blacks and representatives of the Third World). And it is especially true of theology being written by persons who believe their oppression to be sexual (as well as racial and political)….meaning women. Dorothee Soelle would not take offense at being called a “liberationist” or a “radical feminist”….and probably wouldn’t mind if you added the word “socialist” for good measure. She is a very forceful lady, whose nature it is to speak powerfully about power. Hers has been a strident and oft-times critical voice….made all the more dramatic by the fact that her accent is decidedly Germanic (rather than, shall we say, French).

That was my assessment of Dorothee Soelle, going in. Which, I will admit, was more than a tad defensive. And which explains why I almost blew off her opening lecture. And would have, had it not been for the following line of reasoning.

After all, she did have a world-wide reputation.

            After all, I had paid a lot of money to be there.

            After all, I was mildly curious.

            After all, it was raining.

So I went….late. My lateness spoke volumes about my openness….or lack thereof. Most of the time, you and I are late by design. The design may be unconscious. But it is still a design. Very few of us are late accidentally….or circumstantially. Our lateness is almost always a statement. But of what? That’s the $64 question.

At any rate, I was late. The chapel was full. I was directed to an overflow room (an auditorium, in an adjacent building). Her lecture was being piped in. No picture. Just sound. But even at this distance, she came across as harsh and judgmental. She spoke of heavy stuff, hammering it to us in a heavy way. She spoke about the “death wish of the western world.” She talked about the rape of the earth, the exploitation of the poor, and the evils of the arms race. She talked about abuses of power in world and church, adding that the real litmus test of “spiritual death in a nation” is not the number of its citizens who disbelieve in God, but the number of its citizens who are kept powerless by the powerful. “The voice of practical atheism,” she suggested, “is not the profession of unbelief by those who have fallen away, but the cry of anguish by those who have been stepped over.” Then she added that, in her opinion, the United States was in danger of becoming a nation of professing believers and practicing atheists at one and the same time.

But, at the end of her lecture, a softer (almost sensual) word began to come through. “We must, as Christians, get in touch again with creation…..with our love for everything God has made. Even as the lover knows the smallest detail of the body of the beloved, so (too) must the Christian get in touch with the smallest secrets of the beloved creation.” Concerning God the Creator, she asked: “Why did God create the earth?” To which came her answer: “As an antidote to loneliness.” And on the subject of God as Lover, came these words: “To make the name of God holy, is to make the love of God real.” Which, she added, is harder for most of us to achieve than we might think….seeing that God loves most of the things we love, but also a whole mess of stuff that we don’t.

Which, I thought, was good. I’ve said similar stuff from time to time. So, since she agreed with me on one or two things, I figured she couldn’t be all bad. Therefore, when the time of her second lecture rolled around, I decided to return. Besides, it was still raining.

So I went. And was on time. Barely, on time. There were only a couple of seats left in the Chapel. They were in the last row, behind a pillar. Which meant that I could hear her, but still couldn’t see her. I concluded that this was an acceptable arrangement.

The lecture was on the meaning of work. It was another mixed bag of ideas, evoking (in me) another mixed bag of feelings. At the close, she announced that lecture number three would be on the meaning of sex. I decided I would attend, whether it was raining or not. I commented on this to a friend. “Just goes to show you,” he said. “Goes to show me what?” I asked. “That you like sex better than work,” he answered. Which I let pass without comment.

The next morning splashed brilliant sunshine all over New Haven. The hour for lecture number three approached. I arrived at the chapel, 15 minutes early. Whereupon, I sat in the front row. I concluded that it was more than just the topic. But I wasn’t sure exactly what it was. As lectures go, hers was brilliant….and beautiful. Incisive….and inspiring. Principled….and very personal. She talked of God’s expectations. But she also shared her story. A wartime lover, lost. Hurtful lessons, learned. Truth fashioned from tears. Laughter extracted from pain. She wasn’t so much confessing as reflecting. But the content of her reflection was rock solid. Indeed, her scholarship (over the course of all three lectures) had never been anything but compelling. But it was only with the passing of time….on this, the third day….that the lady, herself, became captivating.

A conversation was taking place. It was not merely at the level of ideas, but on the plane of personalities. Suddenly, it mattered to me….not simply what she thought….but who she was (this harsh, strident, West German feminist….this passionate lover of God and God’s creation…. this vulnerable lady who hurt, loved, cared and shared so deeply).

And when the lecture ended, I left. I never did speak to her. It wasn’t that kind of attraction. But it did occur to me (as I walked from the chapel into the sunshine), that there was a connection between my willingness to move my body (over the course of three days) and her ability to reach my heart. I had started in another room….located in another building….where there was sound but no sight. I continued behind a pillar in the back row, only to end up down front. Which gave me cause to wonder. Did I like her better because I moved closer? Or did I move closer as I began to like her better? Was it movement that created comfort? Or did comfort create movement?

I suppose it was both….although I never sorted it out. What matters, today, is the connection between closeness and comfort. Because there was one, don’t you see? Back in my youth ministry days, there was a kid in my senior high MYF whose name was Ron. He was there every week….although he never said anything to indicate that he was “comfortably there” (if you know what I mean). He was a behavior problem at times. And I especially recall that, every time we put our chairs in a circle, Ron felt the need to move his chair three feet back from everyone else’s. Three-feet-removed was his comfortable distance, don’t you see? He had a need to be among us. But not quite with us.

And I never thought about Ron again, until I was working with a small group of adults in a rustic retreat setting. We spent two days together in sessions of varying intensities. And there was, in our group, one whose chair always needed to be outside the rest of our chairs. In fact, it became somewhat of a game to try and figure out (during the break times) how to reconfigure the circle so as to bring her into it. But every effort failed. For she, too, had a desire to be among us, mitigated by a fear of being with us.

But I can understand that, given that there is often safety in distance. Zacchaeus chose a tree. “I’ll just watch Jesus from the top of this tree,” he said. Now Zacchaeus, we are told, was short of inches. But Zacchaeus, we are also told, was short of ethics. I’ll leave it for you to figure out which of those factors drove him up that tree. As for me, I don’t think he was there to see better. I think he was there to hide better. Which is true of all of us, from time to time. When I worship as a non-preacher, I always sit down front. But when I was a teenager, I often sat in the back row of the balcony….with my back against the wall. And there are still places where I fade into the fringe….even as there are settings into which I move, but never fully unpack.

* * * * *

But I promised to return to my text. For I asked you to hold fast to the story of Philip and Nathanael. And, especially, Nathanael’s quip: “Can anything good come out of Nazareth….out of West Germany….out of the mouth of a radical feminist….out of the south, the north, the east or the west….out of the left, the right, the gay or the straight….out of the town, the gown, the up or the down?” What a defensive posture. But notice this. The purpose of any defensive posture is to maintain maximum distance in order to preserve maximum security.

Therefore, we must learn to read defenses….especially, our own. We need to pay attention to the people we avoid and the subjects we never talk about. I learn far more about myself by reading my avoidances than by reading my actions. And the best technique Jim Dittes ever taught me about pastoral counseling was “to read people’s resistances”….meaning that I should listen to what they don’t say, even more closely than I listen to what they do say….watching for subjects that are consistently skirted, glossed over, dodged or minimized. Because that’s where the “important stuff” can be found.

As a counselor, you can tell when you’re getting near one of those places, because you can literally see the defenses going up. So you aim questions at the defenses. Why did Nathanael feel a need to “put down” Nazareth and anybody who was raised there? Why did Ron feel a need to push his chair three feet behind the rest of the teenagers? Why did Zacchaeus take to the tallest tree? Why did I arrive at the chapel, too late to get a seat? What are our avoidances telling us? And who, among our acquaintances, are we afraid to draw near?

“Come and see,” says Philip to Nathanael. “Check it out.” Which suggests that proximity is important. A woman says of Jesus: “I know that if I can just touch the hem of his garment, I shall be healed.” Do you think, even for a moment, that the healing was in the garment? I don’t. The healing has more to do with the “coming and the touching” than with the hem or the cloth. The Psalmist says: “O taste and see how gracious the Lord is.” But unlike seeing and hearing, tasting is one of those senses that can only be activated when one is but a tongue’s-length removed.

Come and see. Proximity is important. I sometimes think about the “electronic church” and wonder why anybody who could “get religion” in person would prefer to get it by television. But the answer is obvious. The religion one gets over television is anonymous. It asks nothing of you, save a finger that can click on the station and a pen that can occasionally (when guilt gets the better of you) write a small check.

Come and see. Proximity is important. I once heard about a fellow who became smitten with a young lady, but couldn’t make up his mind about asking her to marry him. He tried and tried to figure it out. Days stretched into weeks. Weeks into months. But even as he weighed and counter-weighed the decision, he was desirous of keeping the attraction alive. So he “kept in touch” by sending a letter a day. Every night he wrote it. Every morning he mailed it. The following day, the mailman delivered it. In the end, proximity won. She married the mailman.

Can anything good come out of….? The defense rests.

Whereupon the offense answers:

            Come and see.

            O taste and see.

            Draw me nearer….nearer….nearer, precious Lord.

Could it be…..that in addition to being a head and heart trip, Christianity is (first and foremost) a feet trip? Come

Safe at Home 11/7/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Acts 4:32-5:11

In what (I think) was meant as a compliment, one of you recently said to me: “How come the Bible is always so dull when I read it and so interesting when you read it?” For which I have no answer. Unless it consists in the fact that, in addition to reading the Bible as a very holy book, I also read it as a very human book. Meaning that when I read (or retell) one of its stories, I try to bring out every thing that is there, and every one who is there….letting them be who they are…. and letting them live among you as they lived once (with all of their agony and ecstasy, humor and pathos, warts and halos). I never short-circuit the plot on the way to the point. Neither do I airbrush the humanity on the way to the divinity.

I sometimes tell people (who claim to find the Bible “dull”) to read the Book of Acts. For those who like adventure, it’s got stonings, floggings, riots and prison breaks. It’s got storms, shipwrecks, beatings and blindings. It’s got soothsayers, snake oil salesmen, silver barons, along with a sufficient number of church fights to keep a mediator in business for a lifetime. And if that isn’t enough to curdle your cocoa, it’s got a guy who fell asleep during the sermon, tumbled from the windowsill on which he was sitting, and all but died from his fall to the ground, three stories below.

But you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Virtually everybody agrees that the most dramatic story that circulated through the early church was this little story I just read….concerning the unhappy and unholy demise of a man named Ananias and his wife, Sapphira. I preached this story years ago. But, if you’ll take my word for it, I didn’t go back to find what I said then (or reread what I wrote then). I wanted to come to it “clean,” the better to serve it up “fresh.” Not many sermons defrost well. If they did, I could move tomorrow and coast the rest of the way on a succession of “golden oldies.”

Enough of that, however. Back to our story. It is early in the first century A.D. It is after Jesus…. but before Paul. It is after Pentecost….but before the mission to the Mediterranean. It is a story growing out of the house church movement of “Jesus people” in Jerusalem. It concerns a church that was very small in number, and very poor of pocket. So how did they pay the bills?

For a brief period, they practiced a simple form of communism. Not Russian communism. Not Chinese communism. Not Iron Curtain, McCarthy hearings, or “Big Red Menace” communism. Just a simple form of “collectivism,” wherein they pooled their possessions and mutually ministered to each other’s needs. One feature of this program involved the sale of real estate. Once a field (or house) was sold, fresh money was contributed to the pool….provided the seller followed through with the promise of being a donor. Which was true of a certain Cypriot named Joseph….who the apostles renamed Barnabas (meaning Son of Encouragement or Son of Exhortation). To this day, Barnabas is the only saint….beyond the 12 apostles and Paul….who is honored with his own red-letter day in the Anglican Church.

And why was Barnabas such a big deal? Because he sold a field in the very earliest days of the movement and laid it at the apostles’ feet. Not the field, mind you. The money. Barnabas showed them the money. All of the money. As to the agent’s commission, the Bible says nothing. But if you see Kathy Dalton afterward, she’ll probably know how the agent made out at the end of the day. Good realtors have a network by which they track such things.

Very few people know this, but Neil Ferguson told me (just before the service) that several of our members who have property on Walloon Lake have recently taken this text to heart. Which means that, any day now, there should be a ton of new listings in the Petoskey Times Herald, and an infusion of fresh cash into the coffers of First Church.

So much for background. As to how long this practice persisted, we cannot say. There is no evidence that it lasted to the end of the century. The repeated appeals of Paul to the churches of Greece and Asia Minor to send generous offerings to “support the saints of Jerusalem,” would tend to suggest that either the “saints of Jerusalem” ran out of people with Walloon Lake property, or that the Mother Church came to feel that the “mother lode” was in its rich daughter churches, more than in its cash-depleted members. Darned if I know. And the Bible doesn’t say.

What it does say is that shortly after this “encouraging” act of Barnabas, two other people peddled some real estate and held back part of the price. Which was not sinful, in and of itself. They were under no obligation to give it to the church. For while such donations were a commended practice, not everybody made them. The issue was that they “said” they were going to give the proceeds to the church….all of the proceeds….from the first dollar to the last dollar. For all we know, they probably made a “big deal” of their projected gift. But they didn’t follow through on it. In short, they lied.

They, being Ananias and Sapphira. The word “Ananias” means “God is gracious.” The word “Sapphira” means “beautiful” (or better yet, “lovely”). At any rate, they sold the land and then held back on the pledge. Which Peter figured out….either by himself, or with the help of Joan Benner in the Finance office. So Peter called Ananias on the carpet, saying (in effect): “What got into you….or who got into you….so as to lead you to lie about what you sold….about what you got for what you sold….about what you gave out of what you got for what you sold….and about what you pocketed for yourself out of what you got for what you sold?”

I know that there are very good reasons as to why people don’t always follow through on what they say they are going to do. Sickness comes. Unemployment comes. Expenses rise. Market dies. Car fails. Plumbing goes. Everybody makes allowances for that.

But such is not the case, here. The biblical implication is that Ananias conspires (with the help of his wife) to make things “look” one way, while having them “turn out” a very different way. I’ll never forget the guy in Dearborn (over 30 years ago) who had it figured out to the “T.” He knew that the counting team always prepared the bank deposit (following the 11:00 service) in a hard-to-find locked room in the basement. So every Sunday he would appear about 12:45, knock on the door, and offer up another version of the same story.

He was a member who owned a retail store, meaning that he regularly made change. Which left him in need of both coins and small bills. So he would offer to buy all the silver and all the singles, writing a check for the total. Which would lighten the load of the deposit bag, while simplifying the work of the counters. And there was no reason not to trust him. I mean, they knew him. They knew his wife. They knew his kids. Besides, his check was always good. Always cleared. Never bounced. Because, you see, he wasn’t cheating the church. He was cheating the government. How, you ask? On his taxes, that’s how. At the end of every year, he totaled those checks written to First Church and declared them as charitable deductions. They weren’t, of course. But the government had no way of knowing that. If he hadn’t gotten greedy, he’d have never been audited. And the IRS would have never called the church. And the church treasurer would have never blown the whistle….on a very clever scam….by a very nice man….at a very trusting church. Stick around long enough and you’ll see it all.

But back to Ananias. Peter puts it to him. And, upon hearing Peter’s words, Ananias falls down and dies. Whereupon, the text says, “great awe came over everybody.” Several young men got up….wrapped him up….bore him up….carried him out….and laid him down. Down under. Six feet under. What do you call those men? “Pallbearers.” That’s what you call those men.

Three hours go by….(why does everything in the Bible take either three hours or forty days?). And what happens after three hours go by? The lovely Sapphira drops by the church, no doubt wondering why Ananias hasn’t come home for lunch (or to rake the leaves). So Peter questions her. “Did you have a field?” “Did you sell it for such and such a price?” “Did your gift to the church equal your stated intentions?” “And, if not, were you in on this little scheme with your husband?”

Whereupon Peter suddenly changes the subject, saying to her: “You see those young men coming through the door with shovels in their hands and mud on their boots? Bet you can’t guess where they’ve been.” So Peter tells her where they’ve been. They’ve been out burying the body of her hubby. Leading her to fall on the floor in a faint….just as fast….just as dead. So the young men buried her, too. Right beside him. And it was said, once more, “that great awe fell upon the church, and all who heard these things.”

So who killed them? Well, nobody did. Peter didn’t. The pallbearers didn’t. The power of God didn’t. Assuming they died (and who would make up a story like this, let alone perpetuate it, were it grounded in a falsehood), they died from something inside rather than from something outside. You figure out what it was. You’re a bright congregation. Most of you have taken an introductory course in psychology. I’ve got to believe you’ll come up with something over lunch. And I expect your explanation will be every bit as good as mine.

The question that interests me more is this. “If you cheat the church, are you gonna die?” I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But, if you do, it’ll be an inside job again. I mean, God’s not gonna kill you. Religion needs to lay to rest all that “striking people dead” language. You hear it all the time. “Better watch out, God’s gonna strike you dead.” “Better not sit too close to Carl in case God decides to strike him dead.” That’s hogwash. And it’s long past time for someone to say: “That’s hogwash.”

But generous people do live longer, don’t you know. Better, too. There is a demonstrable medical correlation between open hands and strong hearts. And there is a sense that if you live with internal integrity….so that all of the parts of your life are working as one….you are going to fare far better than if all the parts of your body are working as two (or three, or four). I have always known this. But I haven’t always talked about this. Especially as concerns the issue of giving. Or, more to the point, tithing.

As is usually the case when a preacher doesn’t talk about something, the silence is usually rooted in the subconscious of one’s own embarrassment. More simply put, one is unlikely to preach what one hasn’t been inclined to practice. And if that were the case, I could understand it. But that wasn’t the case then. And it isn’t the case now. For virtually all my ministry, I have believed in tithing. And for virtually all my ministry, I have practiced tithing. In other words, my “soft sell” from the pulpit was a betrayal of my own philosophy and practice. As I analyze it now, that betrayal was rooted in the feeling that I needed to protect and coddle you. I suppose that in protecting you, I figured that I was protecting myself. But the terrible fact of the matter is that I didn’t protect you at all. I cheated you. I cheated you out of a marvelous discipline that could have made all the difference in your lives.

You see, tithing is not some nifty little scheme the Jews thought up in order to balance the budget of the Temple. Instead, tithing is a God-given principle that enables people to order their lives so that everything runs more smoothly. So, if your life isn’t running all that smoothly….and if finances are one of the reasons….this may be the most important word I will say to you all season.

Tithing can straighten out your financial life more effectively than any money-management seminar you could attend or any budget-building book you could read. I am serious. Hear me out. My colleague, David Church, writes:

I used to be mystified by the fact that when persons began to tithe, they inevitably discovered that the remaining 90 percent of their income seemed to go farther than did the 100 percent when they kept it for themselves. This has been the universal experience of everyone I have known who has started to tithe. Tithers are happier. Tithers are more fulfilled. And tithers have more of the things they want and need, than those who keep all of their income for themselves. It’s a fact. Check it out.

Right on, David. I agree. What’s more, I know why. It has nothing to do with God smiling on tithers and tipping the storehouse of heaven’s goodies so that good fortune rains more frequently on those who tithe than on those who don’t. No, things work out for tithers because the very act of tithing puts God at the center of their decision making. Which means that God becomes a part of the process of figuring out what to do, not only with the 10 percent that is given to the church, but with the 90 percent that is kept. And when people become intentional about the way they spend all of their money, they inevitably get more joy out of what they do with it, while avoiding the problems that arise from a spending plan that has no focus or purpose. The absolute genius of tithing consists in the fact that tithers say: “This is where I start.” And when you start from the right place, things tend to fall in the right order.

Lots of things fall in the right order. Including your health. It’s a spiritual law. You can look it up. But save that for later. For now, simply hang onto your hat. Because we’re going to Tulsa. Which is where my friend Bob Pierson preaches….in a Methodist church….a big Methodist church….where they collect lots and lots of money, each and every Sunday morning. Whereupon they stuff it in a safe until Monday….when they count it, total it and bank it.

Oh, don’t worry. It’s a big safe. And a safe safe. Nobody’s every cracked it. Or lifted it. I mean, you’d have to take half of the floor with it. Which is exactly what someone did. Or several someones did. It happened a few weeks back….on a Sunday night….when the safe was full. Bob said he got a call from the alarm company along about 2:00 in the morning (“Gee, Rev….we don’t want to bother you….but we’ve detected a slight variance on our motion detector.”). “A slight variance?” cried Bob. “These guys had to have used a backhoe to get that safe out of there.”

Well, they wrote everybody a letter. First thing. Told ‘em what happened. Got everybody to tell the church….Scout’s honor….what they’d given that day. And when the shock died down, people seemed to be taking it pretty well. And the leadership, from Bob on down, was working pretty hard.

Until several days later, when Bob was called out of a meeting by his secretary to speak to a fellow who had come to the office and wouldn’t go away. So Bob went out to help him go away. Whereupon the fellow said: “Reverend, I think you recently lost something. And I might….just might….be able to help you find it. Can we talk?”

Well, as it turned out, the young man (by his own admission) wasn’t always a very nice man. But he had gotten his life straightened out. Now he was trying to help others get their lives straightened out. Which was how he happened to learn about the safe….whose it was….where it was….and what was in it. Then he said:

Reverend, that ain’t right. I know that. I’ve always known that. So I’ve told the people who have your safe that what they’ve got is the Lord’s money….from the Lord’s house….for the Lord’s work. And when I found out where that money belonged, I knew that if I didn’t come to see you, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. I’d rather not tell you my name. But if you trust me, I’ll call you and let you know where you can get your safe. And, I guarantee you, that even though it will have been opened, there won’t be one dollar (or one dime) missing from its contents.

Whereupon he did. They did. And there wasn’t.

True story? Yeah.

Good story? Yeah.

Straight story? You tell me.

* * * * *

The Lord’s money!

            Some people hold it back.

                        Some people bring it back.

                                    It’s all in a day’s work….right?

                                                Wrong! Some days, it’s a matter of life and death.

Pity the Wayfaring Stranger 7/25/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Matthew 10:40-42, Romans 12:9-13, Genesis 19 (selected portions)

Apparently, a lot of you resonated to my comments about the banking industry (on the cover of this week’s Steeple Notes), and whether or not banks are supposed to be friendly. Some of you grew up in my era, when banks were supposed to be safe. For good reason. In those days, bank vaults contained a lot of money….real money….cash money. Bank robberies were big crimes. And bank robbers were the “Cadillac” of criminals. To be sure, people still rob banks. But, comparatively speaking, they don’t get much. And you’ve got to hit 15 or 20 of them in a row before you make the 11:00 news….or the front page.

But those of you who remember the old banks, remember the vaulted lobbies, the high ceilings, the bulletproof glass, and the little grooves in the marble counters, through which you passed your paycheck and your passbook to a waiting teller on the other side.

Today, my bank would rather I not come inside. It is inefficient, time consuming, labor intensive, and (therefore) costly if I come inside. They’d rather I use the machine out front, or the computer at home, to do my banking. Which I could do. And which I do, do. Sometimes. But I’d rather go inside and talk to Laura D’Agostino. Laura is my teller. She knows my name, my face and my account. I think she also knows my profession….which renders me “trustworthy” in her eyes. I ask her about her boy….“Now 13, going on 24,” as she says. He used to be “into” karate. Then he was “into” baseball. This year, he’s out for football. Which worries Laura, even though she admits that he is big for his age. How do I know all this? The ever-changing pictures of her son tell me. There’s a new picture every year. In every picture, he is wearing a different kind of uniform. All you’ve got to do is have eyes to see….and then be sufficiently nosey, so as to ask one personal question every third visit.

But I have news for you. “Friendly” may be coming back, where banking is concerned. After I wrote this week’s Steeple Notes cover, I received my July-August issue of Corp!….which bills itself as The Magazine of Successful Business. No, I do not subscribe to Corp!….nor to any other business magazine. But I get a few. That’s because, technically speaking, First Church is registered as a “Michigan ecclesiastical corporation.” Which makes me….on some computer lists, anyway….the CEO of this Michigan ecclesiastical corporation.

I almost never read the business magazines I receive. But the cover of this particular issue caught my eye. “Banking With Heart,” it said. So I read a pair of articles related to the title. One of them featured the bank owned by my golf-playing partner of a couple weeks ago, our own Dave Provost. The subject was “Private Banking.” And in the article, I read: “Private banking enables the financial institution to wrap its arms around the customer a lot better. Every phone call is answered by a live body….within two rings. And customers are known by their first names, as well as by their financial needs.” Then, in the second article, I encountered the verb “embrace” no less than three times. Apparently, some bankers not only want to welcome us, they want to hug us. Wow!

All of which I raise for a reason. Namely, to talk about welcome mats and whether they be out or in….along with hospitality, and whether it be out or in.

In my same Steeple Notes article, I quoted from a USA Today series entitled “Vanishing America.” I noted the observation that the always-open-church (the one you could enter any time of the day or night) is all but gone….along with front porches, neighborhood groceries and dinner parties in people’s dining rooms. I still eat a lot of meals in people’s dining rooms (or on people’s patios), so I can’t really comment on the oft-repeated claim that good “home cooking” is something that can only be obtained from a restaurant. I did once preach a sermon on “comfort food,” rejoicing in the fact that you can now consume it in even the very priciest of places. As I remember, I tied it in with Holy Communion (which I called “the ultimate in comfort food”). But that was seven years ago, meaning that you’ll have to imagine the rest.

And as for front porches, I miss ‘em. I live on a wonderful street….large homes….mature trees….personalized architecture. But nobody on my block has a front porch big enough for sitting….unless it be one person, sitting on one chair (a tall, narrow, upright, kitchen chair). Instead, we all sit out back where nobody can see us….or talk to us….unless we specifically invite them. Which has its advantages, I’ll admit….speaking as one whose lower-than-average privacy needs have to be met sometime. In a similar vein, we now have as many staff members who work on the second floor, as work on the first floor (where all the foot-traffic is). And there’s not a staff member on the second floor who’s ever complained or asked to come back down….so as to be closer to where the foot-traffic is. And should you poll those who remain on the first floor, I suspect you’d find a couple just itching to move upstairs.

I’ll skip neighborhood groceries….although if the economy were built around people like me, Kroger’s would be in bankruptcy and there would be a Quarton Market on every third corner. And, under the heading of “locked churches,” I hate ‘em, and have fought against ‘em every place I have served. Although I’m not naïve. I do understand the realities of urban living and the safety needs of vulnerable employees. Fortunately, the Bishop is allowing me to play the back nine of my career in Birmingham, where we can keep most of the doors open for most of the hours of the day. Which means that nobody will ever have to read a sign that says, “We are a friendly, welcoming congregation,” and then have to buzz their way in and have their every movement monitored by surveillance cameras, hidden in the ceiling. Which is the way it is in a lot of churches, don’t you know.

“What happened to hospitality?” people cry. Well, what happened to hospitality was insecurity. When people no longer felt safe, they buttoned things up. They installed locks, buzzers, cameras, gate houses and tall hedges….along with any number of things that controlled access. They became “selectively social,” given that you never know who may be out there. A fascinating sign of our time became that small poster which featured the print of a child’s hand. Some of us placed it in our windows as a signal to children, walking down the street, that ours was a “safe house”….should they ever need a place of immediate refuge on their way to or from school.

But “security” was not the only issue that privatized hospitality, turning “welcome” into a highly-selective verb. Privacy also entered in. People began to define their space more carefully….setting limits….establishing parameters. I find it fascinating that, over the last four or five years, one of the “in” topics in the pop-psychology publishing field concerns “the art of setting personal boundaries”….coupled with “assertiveness training,” so as to assure that once we set a boundary, we can announce it, maintain it, and appropriately punish any and all violations of it.

All of which is understandable. Maybe even laudable. But much of this runs counter to the spirit of scripture….which would seem to be bullish on glad-hands, open doors and generous treatment of guests (even if they be strange and potentially suspicious). Some of which represents a blend of Bible and culture, given that the entertainment of sojourners was recognized as a sacred duty throughout the Mediterranean world, and was more strictly kept than many a written law.

This mandate was especially appropriate to “nomadic life,” when people moved around a lot, but where public inns were a rarity. Some people took strangers in, out of a fear that the strangers might harm them if they didn’t. But others felt that each potential guest might be “more” than meets the eye, not “less”….meaning that you might be offering your guest room to God himself, or (perhaps) “entertaining an angel, unawares.” But factored into the mix was the knowledge that you, too, might be a stranger tomorrow. And if you wanted to ensure that a “Vacancy” sign would be posted in your future, you had better light one up for somebody else in the present.

A guest, in Bible times, was treated with respect and honor. He was provided provender for his animals, water for his feet, a generous feast for his stomach, and a bedroll for his weary bones. Guests enjoyed protection, even if they were perceived as unfriendly or adversarial. Such protection was extended for three days (or 36 hours after actually eating with their host). This was equal to the number of hours the host’s food would remain in the guest’s digestive system.

One of the ugliest incidents in the Old Testament concerns this issue of hospitality. Two guests come to lodge with Lot (who says to them, in effect: “Far better my place than the street.”). Whereupon several men from the neighborhood bang on Lot’s door (saying): “We want to have sexual relations with your male guests.” When Lot is seemingly unable to deter the men at the door by any other means, he calls out to them: “How about if I send out my two daughters….my two virgin daughters….that you may do to them as you please. But do nothing to these men who have come under the shelter of my roof.”

Ugly? Of course it’s ugly. The fact that Lot’s two guests turn out to be angels….who strike the men at the door blind, and deliver Lot and his family from Sodom, just prior to its destruction (save for Lot’s wife who dares to look back and immediately becomes the world’s first salt lick)….even all that does not diminish the ugliness of Lot’s choice. Strangers or daughters? Strangers or daughters? Strangers or daughters? But there you have it….a biblical glimpse into the concept of“hospitality”….as a command rather than an option….as an expectation, rather than an invitation.

Eleven times in the New Testament, Jesus either assumes or receives the hospitality of others for his daily care and lodging. How else do you think he survived? Furthermore, hospitality is assumed by Jesus in the sending forth of the apostles (“He who receives you, receives me,” Matthew 10:40). And the early church would never have made it, had it not “practiced hospitality” as Paul mandated in Romans 12. Traveling missionaries stayed in homes….conducted worship in homes….served the sacrament in homes….and took up collections for those engaged in the work of the Gospel in homes. In the first two centuries of the church’s existence, any talk about “the house of God” literally meant a house….somebody’s house….where the people of God gathered, and where the servants of God bunked (while passing through). Which is why First church has decided to sell all three parsonages. We ministers are moving in with you until, like fish, we begin to stink after three day’s time.

There are signs that hospitable environments are making a comeback. Outdoor cafes, reading lounges in bookstores, a proliferation of coffee houses….all seem to be secular responses to William Tyndale’s famous admonition: “Be ye of a harborous disposition”….meaning: “Welcome the ships that would otherwise pass (or crash) in the night.” Which some of us know to be good advice. For while there are days in which we will be the harbor-providers, there will be other days in which we will be those ships that are passing and crashing.

But cafes and coffee houses, while wonderfully secular responses to a biblical mandate, are far from enough. Churches must be so, too. Which brings me to a brief word about our Welcome Center.

First Church is a 50’s building. And in the 50’s, it was architecturally fashionable to build public buildings with tons of rooms….all separated….designed for one group (or one activity) only….and then connecting these rooms by long, narrow hallways, through which people would quickly walk on their way from one room to another.

Absolutely nobody would build a 50’s church in the nineties. Hallways are passe….except where absolutely necessary. Single-use space is out….save for highly specialized areas like nurseries and sanctuaries. Big gathering spaces are in….especially adjacent to sanctuaries. Gone are closet-sized vestibules. Gone are narrow, rectangular narthexes. Gone are lobbies, where the primary emphasis is on a place to hang your coat and hat.

If I were going to start from scratch and build a sanctuary, I’d want the gathering space to be at least 50 percent of the size of the sanctuary (if not equal in size to the sanctuary). And I’d include provisions for kiosks, conversation centers, countertop displays and coffee service, along with a bookstore.

In doing our renovation, we did not start from scratch. Neither did we move heaven and earth, economically or architecturally. But we did change the space outside the sanctuary to warm it up, brighten it up and open it up. Which very few of you understood at the time. But which virtually all of you applaud now. As concerns our new-and-improved space, we’re still figuring out ways to use it. We’ll have brochures there. We’ll have sign-ups there. We’ll have bread for first-timers there. And we’ll also have hosts and hostesses there….every week….every service. We won’t offer up our virgin daughters there. But we will open our hearts to anybody who passes by there. In a church that often defines and defends its turf (choir here….youth group there….“don’t eat in there”….“don’t drink coffee here”….my cupboard….your cupboard….their cupboard….locked cupboard), this will be user-friendly space. But, in order for it to work, it needs a lot of user-friendly people….people who will respond to our burgeoning need for hosts and hostesses. We need more greeters. We need more glad-handers. We need more bread-handers. I’ve asked Ann Windley to be there this morning (Ann, for whom the word “graciousness” was coined, and by whom the word “hospitality” is defined), so that you can sign one of her sheets. In doing so, you will be saying: “Go ahead, Ann, give me a call. I will lend my body to this new space a few times a year, the better to meet whatever ‘angel’ comes through the door, disguised as a strange and ordinary mortal.”

Jim Dobson once told about a friend of his who was piloting a single engine plane, along about dusk. He was headed toward a small country airport. But night fell more quickly than he anticipated. Upon reaching the airport, it was impossible for him to distinguish the paved landing strip in the dark. No moon was shining. Nor was his little plane equipped with lights. What’s more, there was nobody around the airport to illuminate the runway. He started circling the airport, uncertainly. For an hour he flew around in the darkness, not quite knowing what to do. At any moment, he could run out of fuel and plunge to his death.

What happened next had to be an answer to prayer. Someone on the ground heard the circling plane and guessed the problem. Jumping into his car, he headed for the airport. Not knowing how to switch on any of the airport’s lights, he settled for driving his car up and down the runway. With his lights on high beam, he was able to illuminate the dimensions of the landing strip. Then he pulled his car to one end of the runway and, with headlights still beaming, guided the pilot to a safe landing.

Which kind of puts Tom Bodette and the Motel 6 people to shame, wouldn’t you say? But what it also does is recall the words of an old hymn:

            Brightly beams our Father’s mercy

            From his lighthouse ever more.

            But to us He gives the keeping

            Of the lights along the shore.

            Let the lower lights be burning,

            Send a gleam across the wave,

            Some poor fainting, struggling seaman

            You may rescue, you may save.

“Be ye of a harborous disposition.”

Once More, With Feeling 9/12/1999

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Mark 1:9-13

Four churches and 35 years into my ministry, it has finally become clear to me that most choirs sing better than they walk. Children’s choirs. Youth choirs. Adult choirs. It’s true for all of them. They can sing in perfect pitch, blend in perfect harmony, count in perfect rhythm, but can’t walk in perfect step. Some choirs attempt the “lean and sway method” of coming down the aisle…. two counts on the left foot….two counts on the right foot. But, simple as that seems, halfway down the aisle (when viewed from the balcony) you will see them swaying in opposite directions. Other choirs abandon the attempt to take kindred steps on kindred beats and go “au natural” as it were….meaning, start on any foot and step on any count, but keep moving forward and try to reach the loft at the same time as your partner. But this is not as easy as it sounds, either. For it assumes that each singer will start, paired with a partner. Have you ever seen singers attempt to find their partner halfway down the aisle? Or have you ever seen singers change partners….“oops, I should be walking with a soprano, not you”….midway through the procession? As any choir member will tell you: “Getting there is half the fun. But judge us on how we sound when we open our mouths, rather than how we look when we shuffle our feet.”

If there is any denominational exception to the “chaos theory of religious processions,” it is surely the Episcopalians. Which is not why we hired Rod. But we will take whatever he brings by way of learned instruction. Episcopalians are “into” processions. Big time “into” processions. They get everybody all dressed up and then they give them some marvelous things to carry as they walk. They have colorful names for everybody in the procession. They also have colorful garb for everybody in the procession. When I talked to Rod about being a liturgist this morning, I told him to take everything out of his closet and wear it. Which, as you can see, he did.

But it never gets any better than an Episcopal ordination, wherein a seminarian’s entrance into the priesthood is akin to the coronation of a king. Or, depending upon the liberal spirit of the diocese, a queen. Listen to this description by one astute observer of the Episcopal scene:

I remember one particular ordination I attended at Christ Church, New Haven. It was sometime during the seventies. The procession began with a very agile thurifer who filled the nave with sweet smoke by twirling the incense pot in figure eights over his head. Then came a sea of clergy, separated into their respective orders, by three different sets of crucifers, and three different sets of acolytes. Finally the ordinand appeared, vested in white, surrounded by his sponsors, and followed by the bishop in full ecclesiastical regalia, clumping his crozier on the ground as he walked.

Now I realize I have just used a ton of “churchy” terms that are probably foreign to you. So if you know nothing of “thurifers,” “croziers,” “crucifers,” or even “vestments,” seek out Rod after the service….since he is, by my decree, our new resident expert on things Episcopal and liturgical. But back to the account of this young man’s ordination.

The next two hours were something of a blur. But I do remember the moment the ordinand laid down on the floor….face down on the floor….face down on the slate and marble floor….at the foot of the steps to the altar. His body made a perfect cross. I found myself wondering how the cold stones felt upon his cheek. At last he arose and was helped into a gold brocade vestment that, when the light hit it, twinkled like a thousand candles. At which point he went to the altar to serve (as a Deacon) for the very first time.

My ordination was not nearly so impressive. Although, in its dignified simplicity, I remember it still. I did not lay down on the floor. But I did kneel. Hands were laid. Prayers were said. Scriptures were extended. Authority was conveyed. And I was moved. But nothing twinkled in gold. Nor did anything smell of incense.

The process of stretching, cruciform style, on the floor….prior to rising to be robed in gold….is symbolic, don’t you see. We who would serve Christ….we who would speak for Christ….we who would live and lead for Christ….must first die and rise with Christ. Or as we sang (in the 49th or 50th chorus of “Do Lord”): “If you can’t bear the cross, then you can’t wear the crown.”

That young deacon’s ordination was obviously memorable. For, as my observer noted: “I was far from the only person present who thought that becoming a deacon must be the next best thing to ascending a throne.” But you and I both know that, come Monday afternoon (or Tuesday morning, at the latest), someone at the church told that young deacon that there was a burned out light bulb in the women’s bathroom and would he please do something about it before Sunday morning.

I understand the feeling. I came to Christ early. I came to Christ often. I came as a preteen….as an early-teen….and as a later (but not all that much wiser) teen. I said “Yes” seven or eight (maybe nine) times. I can remember some of them. But I can’t remember all of them. There was this lakeshore and that campfire….this preacher and that altar. They all blend together now. Mostly, I remember the music. I remember the song I was singing….the song the choir was singing….the song that the birds, bees, rocks and trees were singing. I could defend myself against God’s word. But God’s songs always seemed to find their way past the hardened veneer of my pseudo-sophistication, straight to the soft, unprotected underbelly of my soul. If God hadn’t wrapped his invitation in melody, I might be a philosopher, politician or pipefitter instead of a preacher.

Some nights the song was “Just As I Am, Without One Plea.” Other nights, “O Jesus, I have promised to serve thee to the end.” But more than once it was that old chestnut of a hymn written by the late dean of the Boston University School of Theology, Earl Marlatt, who wrote: “Are ye able, said the Master, to be crucified with me.” And I was one of the “sturdy dreamers” who answered: “To the death we follow thee.” I never knew, of course, what any of that might mean….or where any of that might lead. But I believed myself to be equal to it.

Death for Jesus? Of course! Where? On yonder hill? Sure! Shots ring out. Body slumps. Smoke clears. Children hide in their mother’s skirts. Strong men shudder. Widows weep in the afternoon. Years later, there is a small (but tasteful) monument. People stop to see it. Others stop to read it. Some extract cameras from purses, telling their children: “Go stand over there so I can get your picture at the site where Billy Ritter gave his life for Jesus.” Except that it never happened that way.

To whatever degree Billy Ritter was crucified for Jesus, it was over issues like the church kitchen….who could use it….who couldn’t use it….whose responsibility it was to clean it…. “why can’t we ever get anybody to work in it, like some of us did in the old days” (all day, every day, uphill, both ways)….and why does the youth group leave pizza crusts all over it, every time they use it (“after all, even though it’s a kitchen, it’s the house of the Lord, for God’s sake”).

Barbara Brown Taylor used to do what I do for a living. What’s more, she did it better than anybody. But she left to do something else last year. I suppose she had her reasons. Perhaps some of them can be discerned from this quote:

I don’t want to sound cynical, because (as a member of the clergy) I love what I do. Only it’s not what I expected. I thought I would spend hours in a leather chair, reading books, writing sermons, keeping appointments with souls who sought my counsel. I thought I would remember people’s birthdays and answer letters on time. I thought I would pray more. Instead, I answer telephone calls, oversee budgets, pay bills, break up fights, cause fights, proofread bulletins, take the church cat to the vet, and make sure everybody has read the sexual misconduct manual so we can continue to qualify for our insurance.

Then she adds: “I also complain, as I am doing right now. Not because the work is long. Not because the work is hard. But because I somehow seduced myself into believing that the work would be holier than it is.” But then she confessed to a certain boastfulness in her complaining. She compared herself to the mother who has just spent the entire night walking the floor with a colicky baby and wants you to know how exhausted she is, even though she wouldn’t have done otherwise for all the tea in China, and will continue to do it for as many nights as it takes to bring peace to her child’s digestive system and sleep to her bloodshot eyes.

To some degree, all of us are in the same boat. You as well as me. We are all trying to translate the love we have for Jesus into the work we do for Jesus, even as we try to translate the “Yes” we have said to Jesus into the church we are keeping for Jesus. Like most marriages, there are days when being a Christian is full of romance. But there are other days when being a Christian requires a little effort. I learned, years ago, that if love was going to be real and count for anything at all, romance with Tina Larson was going to have to be worked out in a marriage. And I also learned that, if faith was going to be real and count for anything at all, romance with Jesus was going to have to be worked out in a church. Concerning marriage, the boozy comic draws laughs when he quips: “Marriage is an institution. But who wants to live in an institution?” Yet each time the laughter subsides, I realize that I do. I have no more interest in being a randomly unattached lover of Jesus than I have in being a randomly unattached lover of women. I want to live in institutions….like marriage….like family….like church.

Sure, it’s occasionally messy. Hands-on work is always messy. Years ago, dental schools never put dental students chair-side until their third year of study. The first two years were all theory. Gum disease looks like this. Root canals look like this. Master the principles. Memorize the chemicals. But then they found that, when the third year rolled around (and students actually saw real patients), many of them quit. Why? Because they couldn’t stand to put their hands in people’s mouths. You can have a vocational love affair with theoretical dentistry, but if you are going to do any good for anybody’s teeth, you are going to get eight hours worth of spit on your fingers.

You think that’s funny? Some of the best ministerial candidates produced by our seminaries wash out before they celebrate the fifth anniversary of their ordination or complete their second appointment. Why? Because, while they had all the skills in the world for ministry, they never quite managed to develop an affinity for churches….where, the last time I looked, ninety percent of the ministry is still practiced.

Let me put the question thusly. Can you love and serve Jesus on an ordinary day….in an ordinary place….surrounded by a passel of ordinary people?

When we were interviewing Jeremy Africa for a staff position in youth ministry, we included a pair of teens on the interview team. They were there for all of it…..questions and answers…. debate and decision. And along about 10:00 p.m. (when everyone was becoming weary), Jeremy turned to the teens and asked (point blank): “If I am chosen, what do you hope I will be able to do for you?” To which one of them said: “We have a lot of great kids in our youth group. And we have a lot of great times in our youth group. We find it easy to get ‘fired up for the Lord’ when it’s Saturday night of Youth Encounter Weekend….or Saturday night at one of our retreats. But it’s hard to keep that fire going when it’s not Saturday night and we’re not at one of those places. Can you help us in those in-between times?” And, if I heard him correctly, he said he could.

Earlier, I read to you Mark’s account of Jesus’ baptism. There stands John the Baptist, submersing sinners. I suppose that Jesus had every right to stay dry that day. I mean, it doesn’t seem like there could have been much on his conscience that he needed to get clean. But he got in line with the rest of them….said: “Me, too”….before taking his turn under the water. And when he came up, God said; “That’s my boy”….or something to that effect….followed by: “You please me.” That’s all. “You please me.” 

What a send-off into ministry. If anyone should have had a wonderful appointment after that….a stellarcareer after that….a smooth ride to retirement after that….it should have been Jesus. But that’s not what happened. You know what happened after that. Jesus dried himself off and was driven by the Spirit into the wilderness. As concerns that particular wilderness, I have been there.  Four times. Dark place. Desolate place. Dangerous place. Hardly fit for beasts or Bedouins. And what did Jesus learn there? He learned that if there were any shortcuts to Christianity….or any shortcuts to ministry….they weren’t going to be his. No “hocus pocus” that would change stones into scones. No “special protection” that would enable him to impress the daylights out of the boys in his fifth grade Sunday school class by leaping (unhurt) from the top of the steeple to the middle of Maple. And no “keys to the city”….whether Detroit or D.C. ….so that everybody from Denny to Billy would roll over and play dead when he showed up and said: “Boo.”

The baptism of Jesus guaranteed nothing of the sort. But then, neither did ours. I recall hearing of a little three-year-old named Ellen, whose parents wanted her baptized by immersion one Easter Eve….in a church which didn’t do immersions….wasn’t set up to do immersions….couldn’t collect enough water in any one place to do immersions. Their baptismal font looked like a bird bath. Sort of like ours. But the family was insistent, so the minister got creative. He came up with a 36-gallon garbage can, which was then filled with water and decorated with ivy.

It was kind of pretty….if you didn’t look too close. But it didn’t fool anyone. And it certainly didn’t fool Ellen, who (dutiful daughter that she was) went through with everything, just like they’d rehearsed it. She cooperated right up to the moment when the minister bent down to lift her up. Whereupon she stiffened….arched her dear, sweet little back….kicked the garbage can, sending water slopping everywhere….and cried: “Don’t do it!  Don’t do it!”

Maybe she was wiser than her years.  Maybe we all would have screamed the same thing, had we really known what we were getting into. For, as the ancient liturgy proclaims: “To be baptized into Christ is to be baptized into his death.”

“And into his Resurrection.” Meaning that when we immerge from the river….or climb out of the can….there exists a very real possibility that we won’t be the same old people anymore, or the same old church anymore. And whether we get a vestment of gold brocade that twinkles like the light of a thousand candles, or are robed in righteousness and fitted with the full weight of God’s armor, we can (in that wonderfully archaic phrase): “walk in newness of life.” Which is a pretty incredible promise, given what most of our “old lives” look like.

The theme for this year’s Youth Encounter Weekend is “More To This Life.” And I don’t know many people who can’t relate to that, given that most of us are looking for more…longing for more….praying for more….and turning over every last rock in this venerable old building in hopes of finding more.

Well, let me tell you, you’ve come to the right place. Not a perfect place. But the right place. I really believe that. Which is why I continue to pour body and soul into it. But I am far from alone. A lot of us do. We give our life, here. We find our life, here. We bear the marks of Christ’s death, here. And we bask in the glory of his resurrection, here. All the while, holding nothing back. 

The oldest church joke in the world concerns the little boy who, upon inquiring about all of the people named on the plaque in the narthex, was told: “Those are the members of our church who died in the service.” To which he is alleged to have said: “Which one?  9:30 or 11:00?”

All things considered….there are far worse ways to go.

Note:  This sermon was preached on Homecoming Sunday, and also marked the final day of Youth Encounter Weekend. Jeremy Africa is a new hire in Youth Ministry. Rod Quainton is a new member of the Pastoral staff, and is a fully-credentialled Episcopal Priest. References by Barbara Brown Taylor can be found in one of her newest