Any Way You Slice It 8/11/2002

First United Methodist Church. Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Exodus 16 (selected verses); Matthew 6:11

Today’s subject is bread. And I have got to believe that, were I to divide you into groups of five and give you ten minutes to discuss the matter, each such grouping would come up with twenty good bread stories, so universal is the topic. But since our sanctuary is not built for small group discussion, I am going to tell you my bread stories and you will have to either resonate or suffer in silence. So here goes: “A Short History of Billy and Bread.”

I am but a boy….a “wee lad” as the Scots say. It is either a Monday or a Thursday (those being the days my grandmother bakes bread). Never on Tuesday or Friday. Always on Monday and Thursday, with at least one loaf per day coming home under the arm of my father. As bread goes, it’s good….although I am more impressed with the baking part than with the eating part. For my grandmother’s crusts are….well….crusty. Which is why I make my mother trim them from my sandwich before cutting my sandwich into squares…..or (better yet) triangles. Living with my lunchtime requirements is not easy for my mother. But I outgrow them in time for marriage.

About this time I become interested in the communion bread at my church. Not theologically interested, but functionally interested. I notice that the bread is always passed on little silver trays piled with precut pieces. I find myself wondering:

1.      Who cuts the pieces and do they need any help?

2.      Who decides how big the pieces should be, and how quickly can I scan the entire tray in order to select the biggest one?

3.      Do Christians always trim the crusts before cutting the pieces, or is this simply the whim of the Methodists?

Occasionally, I ride with my father down Grand River late at night and pass the best smelling building in all of Detroit. It is the building where they bake Wonder Bread, and the aroma that permeates the street almost persuades me to become a baker. Except my father points out I’d have to work nights. Today, that building houses a casino and, in its own way, still makes bread. Which still smells.

I am now a young minister, attending a denominational meeting, listening to a sermon by a man who, for my money, may be the best preacher I ever heard. His name, Colin Morris. His denomination, Methodist. His country, Great Britain. His particular assignment, President of the United Church of Zambia. In his sermon, he is describing a severely malnourished Zambian male who dropped dead just a few feet from the front door of the manse. A subsequent autopsy revealed nothing in his stomach, save for a few undigested balls of grass. When death came to the beggar outside his study, Colin Morris was inside his study reading a clergy journal of the Church of England. The subject of the lead article being: “The Ceremonially Proper Way to Dispose of Leftover Eucharistic Bread”….meaning communion bread already consecrated by the priest, but not consumed by the smaller-than-expected number of congregants. Within a few weeks of hearing Morris’ story, a grade school kid approaches me after communion and asks if he can have the remainder of the loaf left on the altar. I hear myself saying: “Sure.” In response to which I hear him saying: “Oh boy.”

I am now as mature in my career as I am in my midsection, having been just appointed senior minister at First Church, Birmingham. It is late Saturday night before my first Sunday. The doorbell rings. I open it to find Bill and Ivah DaLee standing before me. I learn that Bill bakes bread as a hobby and that he and Ivah think it appropriate to feed me on Saturday night prior to my feeding them on Sunday morning. Which they do. And which I do.

A few more years go by and Kris and I find ourselves in Egypt. We are quartered in a converted Cairo palace, one of the most opulent hotels in which we have ever been privileged to lay our heads. In one of the garden courtyards, a woman is baking flatbread in a makeshift, wood-fired oven. Still stuffed from lunch (and having just made reservations for what I expect will be a sumptuous dinner), my stomach rebels with the cry: “No….no….pass her by.” But seeing her seated there baking her heart out (looking for all the world like an Egyptian Martha), I can’t not buy some.

Finally, I am in an Israeli kibbutz, flush on the shores of the Sea of Galilee (midway between Tiberias and Capernaum). I am far from alone, given that forty friends are with me. The morning cannot be any more perfect (even though the tour bus is a tad late). Communion by the lakeshore is suggested. Of course. Why not? An inspired thought. Someone produces a bottle of wine bought the day before. Someone else produces a silver chalice bought the day before that. But what about bread? No one has a spare loaf anywhere. A breakfast bagel, maybe. Toast from the dining room, possibly. Then it is remembered that the buffet table in the dining room features an incredible centerpiece of foodstuffs (fruits….vegetables….cheeses….and a beautiful loaf of braided bread). Which I dispatch someone to steal (the bread, I mean), so that we can break it with Jesus….on his shore….of his lake….in his land. In response to which everybody says: “Never has holy communion meant so much to me. Thanks, preacher, for creating such an inspirational moment.”

* * * * *

Enough of stories. Digest them at your leisure. Like over a sandwich. Or whatever. It’s time to make a few points. Biblical points. Hopefully, obvious points. Better yet, memorable points.

Point number one: We need bread. Everybody knows we need bread. God knows we need bread. Jesus knows we need bread. And by “bread,” I mean the kind that is found on the table and the kind that is found in the wallet. In a best-loved Bible story, Jesus tells several thousand people to sit down (in groups of 50, no less) and then tells the disciples to feed them. As you will recall, the disciples voice a pair of protests. First, they say they have no bread. Second, they say they have no money to buy bread. So Jesus takes matters into his own hands. Or he puts them into a little boy’s hands (depending upon which version of the story you prefer). But at the point where the story lands in the lap of the disciples, they lack bread of both kinds…..the edible kind and the spendable kind.

Both kinds are important. Jesus tells the tempter that “man does not live by bread alone.” Notice he does not say that man does not live by bread. Of course man lives by bread. Man is a bread-dependent animal. I am talking about bread which is wheat, rye or pumpernickel. But I am also talking about bread which is salary, Social Security and stock options. People have to eat. People have to be able to afford to eat. I have never been a proud bread baker. But I have been a proud breadwinner. Anything wrong with that? Nothing whatsoever is wrong with that. Unless (and until) I come to the point when life starts and stops with bread….when the day begins and ends with bread….or when I get sucked into the popular mythology that if I just have enough of this (hold up loaves) and this (hold up twenty dollar bills), I will be happy. Because I won’t.

Point number two. We need bread. God provides bread. It is okay to ask for bread and okay to receive bread. There may be an occasional blessing we gain from fasting, but there is nothing that we gain from starving. God wants you to eat. God wants you to be able to afford eating. God would prefer that you not obsess over either….eating or affording. But God is into providing. It may not come as expected. But it will come. Daily manna is what the people of Israel got in the wilderness. To be sure, they got sick of it….and tired of it. But it kept them going. As best as we can figure, “it” may have been a sticky, sweet secretion from the tamarisk tree which dripped to the ground (generally in May and June), crystallized by night, turned white, and actually contained calories. It hardened into thin, wafer-like sheets which people broke off and ate. Someone once described it as having the texture of Styrofoam. But hey, a little peanut butter and jelly, and anything’s edible.

Did they actually eat the stuff? Probably. Did they eat it exclusively? Probably not. But the story is their way of saying: “It is not God’s will that anyone should go without.” And the word “daily” means that it will come when needed (as needed) so that just when you think “Oh, I’m all right for now, but I’m gonna be hungry tomorrow….lonely tomorrow….weak and fainthearted tomorrow….poor in spirit tomorrow….or just plain poor tomorrow,” you can ask God tomorrow. You can take the “daily bread” promise to the bank, although you cannot necessarily take the bread to the bank. This is what is meant by the suggestion that manna spoils when you try to keep it overnight. Which is not a prohibition against stored-up things like savings bonds, insurance policies, college funds, freezer plans or home-canned tomatoes. But which is a statement of trust which proclaims: “I may not know what tomorrow holds, but I know who holds tomorrow.”

Let me illustrate. I do all kinds of planning, the better to do a consistent job of preaching. But I never have so much stuff in the well….so many ideas in the pipeline….so many stories at the spigot….that I don’t occasionally come up dry. But I have got to tell you that on those empty-well days, something always seems to come from God-only-knows where (and I literally mean from God-only-knows where) when I need it most. Daily manna! For some of you, it’s a kernel of corn. For me, it’s the germ of an idea.

Point number three. We need bread. God provides bread. Churches ought to double as bread trucks. Meaning that the church which turns its back on issues of hunger and hungry people forfeits its right to the title “church.” No matter how poor the church is….how weak the church is….how hell-bent and focused on survival the church is….if some form of bread delivery is not part of its charter, it has no charter. You think I’m wrong? Read the New Testament and then come back and tell me where I’m wrong.

Every year at Annual Conference, a slew of ministers retire. At that time, they have the option of giving a brief retirement speech. One year, a fellow whose career had been nondescript at best, chose to forfeit his few minutes at the microphone and, instead, presented the Bishop with a loaf of his homemade bread. Which generated tumultuous applause (either because it took less time or because it was different). The guy who followed him was a fellow who really felt that the Bishop had done him wrong by putting him in all the wrong churches at all the wrong times, following all the wrong people, thereby contributing to his overall sense of depression and failure. All of which led him to say: “Wouldn’t you know it? First they send me to follow Paul Blomquist and you know how hard it is to follow Paul Blomquist. Then they send me to follow Tim Hickey, and everybody knows that nobody can follow Tim Hickey. Now, on the day I finally hang it up, they send me to the microphone to follow a bread act.”

Well, if we clergy read the New Testament, we’re all sent to follow a bread act. And if we don’t have a bread act…..or can’t create a bread act….we’d better hang up the old preaching robe, stick several ballpoint pens in our shirt pocket, and go door to door selling aluminum siding. Because the day is coming when Jesus will say, “Friend, why didn’t you notice me when I was hungry?” And, for the life of us, we are not even going to remember when that was.

Point number four. We need bread. God provides bread. Churches ought to double as bread trucks. And just as Jesus is full of bread, bread is strangely full of Jesus. Start with the fact that Jesus is full of bread. Jesus was a Jew. Which suggests that every Friday night, Jesus celebrated Shabbat with a Sabbath meal. And every Friday night after his mother lit the candles and his father poured the wine, he (as the oldest son) pronounced the blessing over the “challah,” the flaky bread of the Sabbath family meal.

Which happened every Friday. Without exception. Until that Thursday when he said: “I’m afraid I’ll miss the next one, friends. But if you break the bread without me, I’ll be in it.” Meaning what….“that I’ll be in it?” Did that mean in body….in spirit….in memory? Two thousand years later, we’re nowhere near settling that one. But while the Catholics come to the table proclaiming “a doctrine of real presence,” I’ve yet to meet anyone coming to the table proclaiming “a doctrine of real absence.” All of which makes me wonder why we can’t come together around the notion that, where bread is concerned, “Jesus is in there somehow.”

* * * * *

That’s enough for one morning. Except for this. Notice in the Lord’s Prayer that the request for daily bread is phrased in conjunction with the request for forgiveness from trespasses (“Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses….”).

Perhaps it would surprise you to learn that during Medieval times there emerged a Jewish custom whereby, on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, people gathered on the shore of a lake or river to cast their sins into the water. How did they do it? In the form of tiny pieces of bread, that’s how they did it. The Jewish name for it is “tashlich,” and it is undergoing something of a revival in our culture. In fact, I may even give it a try. I can see it now. As I cast my bread upon the waters of Quarton Lake, passersby will smile and say: “Look at that old man feeding the ducks.” Only I will know that the old man is baring his soul.

Note: For information on Jewish rituals involving bread, I am indebted to a wonderful new book by Harvey Cox entitled Common Prayers: Faith, Family, and a Christian’s Journey through the Jewish Year. For Colin Morris’ story on the starving Zambian, find an out-of-print copy of Include Me Out. For a better introduction to the wonderful body of Colin Morris’ work, read either The Hammer of the Lord or Mankind, My Church.

This sermon was occasioned by the return of 100 persons from First Church’s Choir Camp, the theme of which was “Bread.” As a part of the 10:00 worship service, Choir Camp participants sang a number of bread-related songs. During their week at Camp Lael, they read bread stories, built a bread oven and actually baked some of their own loaves for personal and sacramental consumption.

An Advent Game of Hide and Seek 12/8/2002

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 19:1-10

Several years ago (bordering on seven, to be exact), I told you of the games I played on Wisconsin Avenue when I wore a younger boy’s clothes. There was hockey in the street, step baseball against the porch, various forms of basketball (two-on-two, three-on-three, shirts-on-skins, horse and 21) out by the garage. There was also Kick the Can, Duck on the Rock and Rain on the Roof out in the alley….not to forget Hide and Seek all over the neighborhood.

In the latter game, some kid would press his head against the big, old maple tree in front of Mrs. Gielow’s house, close his eyes (we hoped), and count to a hundred by fives (we hoped). Truth be told, he always shaved the count a little. I suppose, because we always shaved the count a little. But we managed to scramble and hide anyway. At least I did.

I was good at hiding, given that I was forever scouting out new spots….clever spots….never-before-spotted spots….spots that often took a bit of work to wriggle myself into. One time I hid so good, the kid doing the seeking walked right by me at least ten or twelve times. I mean, he could have touched me, so close were we. But he didn’t see, so clever was me.

Hiding there, all covered and camouflaged, I said to myself: “He’ll never find me here. No, he’ll never find me here.” Which was when it occurred to me: “He’ll never find me here.” Which was also when I wiggled some part of my body, which exposed me….outed me….revealed me…. leading me to say (upon discovery): “Ah, shoot, you found me.”

Next time you are a part of one of those multi-generational family gatherings (like Christmas Day dinner, perhaps), suggest that the kids play an indoor game of Hide and Seek while the adults have a second or third cup of coffee. Then notice how many of the players (especially the younger players) give themselves away in their hiding places, especially if the game goes on for any length of time and they have yet to be detected.

Concerning the time-honored pastime of hiding and seeking, Robert Fulghum once wrote:

In the early dry dark of an October’s Saturday evening, the neighborhood children are playing Hide and Seek. How long since I last played it? Thirty years. Maybe more. But I still remember how. I could become part of the game in an instant, if invited. But adults don’t play it anymore. Not for fun, anyway. Too bad.

Did you have a kid in your neighborhood who always hid so good that nobody could find him? We did. After a while, we would give up on him and take off, leaving him to rot wherever he was. Sooner or later, he would show up all mad because we didn’t keep looking for him. And that would start an argument. No matter what, though, the next time he would hide too good again. He’s probably still hidden somewhere, for all I know.

As I write this, the neighborhood game goes on. There is a kid hidden under a pile of leaves, just below my window. He has been there for a long time and everyone else has been found. It seems as if they are about to give up on him over at the base. I half considered going out and telling the other players where he is hiding. Then I thought about setting the leaves on fire to drive him out. Finally, I just yelled out the window: “Get found, kid.” Which scared him so bad he wet his pants, started crying, and ran home to tell his mother. It’s hard to know how to be helpful, sometimes.

Thirty-eight years in the ministry have taught me that the desire to be discovered is greater than I once thought. Seemingly, we want to be found. Or we want to be found out. We are lousy at secrets. Especially secrets about us. The things we hope nobody will find out, we let slip out. Which was one function of the Roman Catholic confessional….its beauty being its anonymity. The confessional was one place you could “say it,” and remain fairly confident “it” would go no further.

I have discovered that there are people who do very good things, only to say: “If it’s all right with you, I’d just as soon nothing get out about this.” But eventually there is slippage….often self-slippage….and something “gets out about this.” And there are people who do very bad things, only to say: “If it’s all right with you, I’d just as soon nothing get out about this.” But I am never surprised when, because of somebody’s slippage….again, usually self-slippage…. something “gets out about this.”

We trip ourselves up, every time. We give ourselves away, every time. Or perhaps it is better to rearrange those words, just a little, so that they read: “We give ourselves up, every time.” The phrase “give ourselves up” introduces religious language, given that it sounds, for all the world, like self-surrender….even when no one is necessarily seeking us.

But what if someone is? Minutes ago, I reread this little gospel story about this little man (little, physically….littler still, ethically). I’m talking about this man we know by the name Zacchaeus. I said “reread this story” because I’ve read it before. So I feel no need to consume great amounts of time describing Jericho….describing sycamore trees… describing exactly how Zacchaeus was a crook (albeit a very white collar crook)….and describing exactly why nobody in Jericho liked him.

Suffice it to say (for purposes of this little exercise) that Zacchaeus is the one doing the hiding, while Jesus is the one doing the seeking. And the signature text for the second Sunday of Advent is found in verse ten: “For the Son of Man came to seek and save the lost.” That’s where Advent begins, don’t you see. Advent begins with a God who comes looking. Looking for who? Looking for the lost….which, depending on the hour, the day or the circumstance, might be any of us…. indeed, might even be us, given that churches double nicely as sycamore trees (as places to hide, I mean).

Concerning people who hide, there are religions….and denominations within religions….that feature gods who say

            Forget ‘em.

            Who needs ‘em?

            (even) To hell with ‘em.

But Luke says that ours is a God who comes seeking them. Which, I suppose, is only fitting, given that the first question God asks in scripture (I mean the very first question God asks) is “Adam, where are you?” And Adam probably giggled (or wiggled a toe) to give away his hiding place, just as Zacchaeus probably rustled a branch to give away his.

When God comes into the world, God comes seeking. God does not wait to be discovered (like North America waiting for Christopher Columbus). God takes the initiative, looking especially for outsiders (the better to turn them into insiders). Which cuts across the grain of human nature, given that human nature thrives on keeping outsiders, outside.

I remember a few tree houses as a kid. And the real joy of a tree house was not so much in who you let into it, but in who you kept out of it. Not unlike all those little clubs we formed as children. All we needed….all we ever needed….to form a club was four people. We needed a president, a secretary, a member, and a fourth kid to be kept out at all costs….without whose exclusion, the club would have no reason to exist. We boys had clubs to exclude our sisters. Our sisters had clubs to exclude us (and the little girl next door).

But sooner or later, God is going to find everybody. God is going to find the ins and the outs….the hiders and the seekers….even the treed and those who tree them. No one is going to escape God’s search and discovery act. All the evasions in the world aren’t going to evade. All the cover-ups in the world aren’t going to cover. All the disguises in the world aren’t going to disguise. Neither are all the sycamore trees in the world going to conceal.

A clergy colleague of mine hates to admit that he is addicted….20 years now….to watching General Hospital. And when a trip out of the country caused him to miss a couple of week’s worth of episodes, he figured he’d catch up by driving down to the corner for an issue of Soap Opera Digest. But figuring it would be clerically uncool to be caught buying (let alone reading) such a rag, he pulled his collar up….pushed his hat down….and whispered to the counter man: “You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of Soap Opera Digest, would you?” Whereupon the counter man shouted to the stock boy: “The reverend wants a copy of Soap Opera Digest. See if we have one in the back.”

No, we will be found out. Better still, we will be found. Even when we’re not hiding….or haven’t the foggiest notion we are lost.

Everybody in the room knows what grace is. Grace is mercy after the fact. But fewer than three or four people in the room knows what prevenient grace is. Prevenient grace is mercy before the fact. Let me illustrate.

Kid wanders away. Wanders away where? Department store. Amusement park. County fair. Disney World. Darned if I know.

Wanders away from who? Mother. Father. Teacher. MYF counselor. Darned if I know. All I know is that the kid wanders away.

Well, that’s not all I know. I also know that the searchee is often oblivious….hours later….to his plight. Kid can’t figure out (when finally found) what all the fuss is about.

Why is everybody looking for me? What’s the big deal? I was just checking things out….trying things on….having a merry old time.

Meanwhile, the searcher (motivated by two parts love and one part terror) is both focused and frantic, trying to mask….albeit unsuccessfully….any evidence of desperation and longing.

Sound like any God you know?

A Survival Guide to the Waiting Room

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: James 5:7-11

If you ask my wife and daughter, they will tell you that patience is not one of my virtues. I could challenge that, I suppose. Consider Christmas presents. Leave mine in the hall closet three weeks before the big day….tell me they’re in there….tell me not to go in there….and I won’t. Not only won’t I peek, I won’t even open the door. If I know something good is coming, I can wait.

After all, it wasn’t my fault that Kris and I got engaged while waiting at a stop light at the corner of Telegraph and Grand River. “Not a very romantic place,” you say. “Right on,” I say. But one of us knew that I had been to the jeweler that afternoon….knew that I hadn’t been anywhere since stopping at the jeweler that afternoon….figured that the result of my visit to the jeweler must be in the car somewhere that afternoon….and that’s the short answer as to how it was we got engaged at a traffic light.

But I know that Kris and Julie are right….about me lacking in patience, I mean. It is evident, not so much in the way I push my churches (which I’ll admit to), but in the way I push elevator call buttons (which I hate admitting to). Even when I can see the people waiting….even when I can see that the desired button is already lit….I push it anyway (two or three times, in case the contact is weak). And if the elevator doesn’t come in ten or twelve seconds, I push it again. I mean, why take things for granted? But what else would you expect from a man who’d rather climb an escalator than ride one?

In a crowded restaurant, I’ll give them my name in exchange for their beeper. But I don’t trust beepers. I trust head waiters. Even though they say they can signal me, I want them to see me. So I don’t go to the outer limits of their signal. I go no further than the outer limits of their sight. That way, I check in with them, every six or seven minutes, to see whether my name is moving up the list.

“A flatter stomach in forty days,” the announcer promises me. But the one who captures my attention is the one who promises a visible reduction in forty hours. Or better yet, a solution I can drink before bedtime that will trim my body while I sleep. Too good to be true, I thought. And apparently it was, given the lawsuits filed just last week.

There is an impatient child in me that sings with Maria (the teenage lover in West Side Story….still one of my favorite musicals): “Today, the minutes seem like hours….the hours go so slowly….no better than all right.” Truth be told, I am a whole lot more patient than I used to be. But I am still a man in a hurry….albeit living (I suspect) in the midst of a people in a hurry. After all, they don’t call us “movers and shakers” for nothing.

Which is why I am not comfortable….nor will I ever be completely comfortable….with my esteemed colleague’s warning that ours is not a faith for people in a hurry. He goes on to write:

If you are in a hurry, you had better hurry on out of here….and out of the Christian faith….because you are in the wrong place. If somebody has sold you a bill of goods, suggesting that if you just say three prayers, do three acts and come to three services, all will be well, they probably have a bridge in Brooklyn they will be willing to sell you next. If, however, you want to take the Christian faith seriously, you had better get used to disappointment, postponement and delay. Because that is the experience of people who believe in something very much worth believing in, but is not yet present or experiencable except in spurts and sputters.  (Peter Gomes)

Which is why this little word from the book of James (which Martin Luther once called “an epistle of straw”) constitutes my signature text for the third Sunday of Advent.

            Be patient, therefore, brothers and sisters, until the coming of the Lord.

But what in the world does that mean to people like us….people for whom the coming of the Lord has more to do with “was” than “will be”….and more to do with yesterday than tomorrow?

My friend’s daughter, Jennifer, asked her preacher father, Eric: “Daddy, why do we prepare for Jesus’ birth when Jesus has already been born?” To which, after thinking about it for a minute, he said: “Because Jesus still needs to be born in the hearts of people who overlook, ignore or simply pass by his manger.” Which is a good answer, insofar as it goes. It is sort of like saying: “Sweetheart, the world has seen the truth. What the world needs now is for the truth to sink in.”

But when James issued his cry for “patience until the coming of the Lord,” he was talking, not about things already seen, but about things not yet seen. He was talking about things having to do with the Kingdom that John the Baptist said was coming….the Kingdom Jesus was supposed to bring….complete with all of the promises we proclaim during Advent (to the point that they are almost clichés). I am talking about promises like:

            Light over darkness,

            Hope over despair,

            Meekness over might.

            Valleys lifted….mountains leveled,

            Crooked things straightened….rough places smoothed,

            Highways in the desert,

Nations streaming up the mountain of the Lord,

            Lions and lambs lying down for a mid-afternoon nap under the same blanket.

            Blind guys seeing….lame girls walking,

            Peace poles in everybody’s front yard,

            Along with a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage

                        (or was that Franklin Delano Roosevelt?).

Jesus came. But not much of that stuff came with him. And if it did, it didn’t last. Which is why we are still waiting. Not for another baby in Bethlehem. Been there. Done that. Instead, we are waiting for nothing less than the coming of Jesus Christ in glory. Haven’t been there. Haven’t done that. The first coming had to do with the introduction of God’s plan. The second will have to do with the fruition of God’s plan. Getting it launched was one thing. Getting it right, quite another thing. James knows that his readers have been to enough “welcome the baby parties.” What James (and his readers) are waiting for is a victory celebration.

If you are like me, you can probably count the sermons you have heard about the Second Coming on the fingers of one hand. More to the point, you will probably have several fingers left over. I’ve engaged in such exercises before, and will probably do so again. But not today. Nor do I wish to get all bogged down in speculation about the specifics of the Second Coming. Because I’m rather vague about the specifics.

            Will Jesus come visibly or spiritually?

                        Don’t know.

            Will Jesus come imminently or futuristically?

                        Don’t know.

            Will Jesus come violently or mercifully?

                        Don’t know.

            Will Jesus come cataclysmically or developmentally?

                        Don’t know.

Will Jesus come in Rome, Wittenberg, Geneva, Epworth or Salt Lake City….in the air or on the square?

Don’t know.

            When he comes, will we all be left standing or will some of us be left screaming?

                        Don’t know.

And will the resultant Kingdom come only in heaven, or also on earth (as it is in heaven)?

                        Don’t know.

Which is not because I’m stupid, but because there are a few things that are not mine to know…. such knowledge being above me, beyond me, unavailable to me, unimagined by me and (don’t miss this) too wonderful for me.

Sure, I have my opinions.

A.    I think we are in for a long wait….yet.

B.     I think God’s plan is workable….here.

C.     I think bits and pieces of the Kingdom are visible….now.

D.    I think that any return of Jesus will have more to do with perfecting all of us, than with killing off half of us.

E.     And I think that the authors of the wildly successful “Left Behind” novels are as wrong as they are rich….giving us wonderful characters wrapped in terrible theologies.

But I could be wrong. Meanwhile, we wait. So how do we wait for the coming of the Lord? I’ll tell you how we wait. We wait collectively, confidently and constructively. That’s how we wait.

Collectively, first. This morning’s title, “A Survival Guide to the Waiting Room,” suggests hospitals and people who go there. Not necessarily people who go to be treated, but people who go to wait for the ones who are being treated….especially to wait for those who are being cut, being chemo-ed….or being cared for during comas. There is easy waiting and there is hard waiting. There is short waiting and there is long waiting. There is “no big deal, she’ll be back up to her room in no time” waiting. And there is “tough it out, touch and go, we really won’t know anything for 24 to 48 hours” waiting.

And thinking I was going to talk about that kind of waiting, Carl Eicker e-mailed me on Friday asking if I was familiar with that particular category of saints known as “with’ems.” It’s spelled just like it sounds….W I T H E M S (although you need to add an apostrophe between the H and the E). I’m talking “with’ems” (as in “with thems”)….as in people who come to the waiting room where the waiters are waiting, and wait with’em. These are people who don’t necessarily know surgery….don’t necessarily know pharmacology….don’t necessarily know psychology…. and probably don’t know much in the way of theology. But they do know sitting….and coffee-go-foring. You know ’em. You need ’em. The with’ems. Can’t wait without ’em. And in the great yawning delay….while waiting for Christ’s second coming….maybe that’s a primary role for the church. To be “with’ems” for each other, I mean. How do we wait for the coming of the Lord? Collectively, that’s how we wait.

And confidently. When you engage your search engine this afternoon to see what famous people have said about the word “patience,” you will discover this little gem:

            I am extremely patient, provided I get my own way in the end.

Can you imagine who said that? I’ll tell you who said that. It was Margaret Thatcher who said that (back in the Iron Maiden’s prime in 1983).

But let me twist Margaret’s words just a bit. My confidence consists, not in the fact that I am going to get my own way in the end, but in the fact that God is going to get God’s own way in the end. Which has been a recurring theme of mine since September 11, last year. I keep reminding you that you need not waste any Kleenex on the Almighty….that God means to win….has the means to win….and will win. How do we wait for the coming of the Lord? We wait confidently.

And constructively. “Wait like the farmer,” James says, which constitutes the final clue. For patience is the essence of farming. Unless it is hard work that is the essence of farming. Or could it be that hard work, coupled with patience, is the essence of farming?

Peter Gomes’ father was a bog farmer….meaning that he grew cranberries. It takes seven years to build a producing bog from start to finish. We’re talking seven years….which makes cranberries perhaps the most biblical prop of them all. But we’re also talking seven years of unremitting physical labor, coupled with a precise understanding of how water, sand, ice, insects, birds, bees and frost all contribute to the fragile ecosystem that makes a bog (and upon which the berries depend).

Peter then writes: “One day when we were in his garden, and I (then a young fellow) told my father that I thought I wanted to go into the ministry, he looked at me without missing a beat with his hoe, and said: ‘I always hoped my son would do honest work.’”

Well, says Peter, I have since discovered that what is true in farming is also true in ministry.

A.    That the harvest is the result of incredible patience (and)

B.     That the harvest is the result of incredible work.

Waiting, alone, will not do.

Working for the sake of keeping busy….keeping out of mischief….keeping bread on the table, will not do.

Working at that for which we wait, that will do.

“My father is working and I am working,” said Jesus. So who are you to be sitting on your duff?

Note:  During this Advent season, I owe a debt of gratitude to Peter Gomes of Harvard for distilling three decades of preaching in Memorial Church of Harvard University. On a pair of occasions, Peter turned to the book of James and the subject of patience. As always, I find his reflections instructive.

A Cello for Jesus 9/11/2002

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Three times I have been in Prague. Three times I have followed the bend in the river to the Jewish Quarter. And three times I have made my way to the Pinkas Synagogue….which, while not the loveliest of the synagogues, nor the most practical (given that Jews seldom worship there), may be the most touching, in that it contains the memorial to all Czech Jews who lost their lives in the Holocaust.

As memorials go, it’s really quite simple….a pair of rooms with names inscribed on the walls from floor to ceiling. There is tasteful art there. There are lovely windows there. But it is the names that one goes to see there. Since they are inscribed alphabetically rather than chronologically, the sequence is easy to follow. Each time, I search the R’s till my eyes stop at the name Ritter. Forty-four Jewish martyrs, half a century removed, share my name. Two of them share both my names. It is strange to look at a Holocaust memorial and see a pair of Villem Ritters.

The last time I was there, the music was haunting. It was not taped, prerecorded or canned in any way. It came from the bow of a solitary cellist, seated in one corner of the memorial. As hard as it was to pull my eyes away from the names, it was harder still to pull my ears away from the music.

All of that came back to me this morning when I watched the opening half hour of the memorial from the World Trade Center. Again, there were the names….read aloud from a microphone. Again, there was musical accompaniment by a changing cadre of musicians. But when someone began to read the A’s, the accompaniment came to us, courtesy of a lone cellist.

With that in mind, drop back with me to my first Christmas Eve in this sanctuary. I talked about Sarajevo that night, not because it is located in a part of the world that sent your people to America, but because it is a part of the nation that sent mine. In December of ’93, they were fighting a war there….as wars used to be fought….hand to hand….house to house….street to street….in the most brutal manner imaginable. So unspeakable was the carnage, that Sarajevo wrote for the world an entirely new primer on violence. At one time or another, everyone in the city became an enemy of someone else in the city. None were safe. Thousands died. And some who lived, wished they had died.

Which is when I told you about Vedran Smailovic. Picture him dressed in formal evening clothes….sitting in a café chair….in the middle of a street….directly in front of a bakery. Weeks earlier, in front of that same bakery, a mortar barrage killed 22 hungry people standing in a bread line. It was to the middle of that street that Vedran Smailovic returned, daily, to play a cello for 22 consecutive days, braving sniper fire to play the profoundly moving “Adagio in G Minor.”

Since he was a member of the Sarajevo Opera Orchestra, he probably knew that his “Adagio of choice” was reconstructed from a manuscript fragment found in the ruins of Dresden after World War II. The music survived the firebombing once. History now tells us that it survived the firebombing again.

In time, the site where Smailovic played became something of a local shrine. People went out of their way to pass there….take friends there….kiss lovers there….get engaged there. Flowers continue to be placed where his chair and cello once stood. I suppose that flowers and music have always been used to express the kinds of hopes which never die.

Eventually, his picture appeared in an issue of the New York Times Magazine. An artist in Seattle saw it. She promptly organized 22 cellists….to play in 22 public places….for 22 days. On the final day, they played together in front of a store window, wherein were displayed 22 burned out bread pans….22 loaves of bread….and 22 roses.

This is September 11, one year removed….a day when we remember things that shouldn’t have happened, but did….even as we express relief for worse things that could have happened, but didn’t. But tonight is not simply a remembrance of evils perpetrated or evils spared. This is an evening to celebrate the reign of the Holy Spirit and the resilience of the American spirit. It is also a night to give thanks for counterpoints to the world’s madness, wherever we find them. Somehow, with God’s grace and courage, people still break bread and plant roses, even as lovers kiss in once-violent streets, and singular cellists play the songs of the spirit that cannot be silenced by gunfire or buried in the ruins and rubble of this world’s lunacy.

One cellist in the World Trade Center is not enough, of course, unless we also sing the song that is played there. Just as one Savior, birthed in the land we call “Holy,” may not be enough, unless we pass on the love that once laid there. But each time we feel the love and hear the music, it reminds us that the world doesn’t really need to be this way….and we don’t really need to be this way. My friends, when we stop believing this, the music will surely die and Christ will haunt the earth no more. Till then ….

Note:  This homily was shared at the conclusion of a 6:30 p.m. service on September 11, attended by 540 people. It featured all of the First Church clergy along with the Chancel Choir. At the end of the homily, a cellist played unaccompanied in the chancel.