Drinking From My Saucer 10/6/2002

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 6:22-35

When, following my mother’s death, we were cleaning out my mother’s things, we happened upon a number of old cups and saucers (like these which I hold before you now). They are not really that old, given that I remember when most of them were purchased….and I am not that old, relatively speaking.

Made of English bone china, my mother collected and displayed them. I don’t recall her ever using them. Which was all right with me, given that I do not do “dainty,” and these are dainty. I suppose if you are going to serve tea sandwiches….those little round things filled with pink and green stuff (that have to be consumed in batches of 50 or 60 to satisfy the average appetite)…. these cups might suffice. And they’ll work for those desiring a mere “spot of tea.” But, as tea servings go, I’d rather have a mess of it than a spot of it. Which is what brings me to my late grandmother (the one to whom I affectionately refer as “the old Yugoslav”).

Grandma was not so much into tea as she was into coffee. And when she poured herself a cup, it was a cup worthy of the name. Bigger, even, than the mugs which are so popular today, Grandma’s cup looked like a salad bowl with a handle. And, in my mind’s eye, I picture the handle as being broken. Meaning that, as cups go, I picture Grandma lifting hers with both hands.

But allow me to digress, just for a moment, for the voicing of a pet peeve. I am talking about waitpersons in restaurants who, in pouring my coffee, stop when the cup is half full. I know it is a fear of spilling that aborts the filling. But I’ll take that risk. Again, blame my grandmother. Her cup always had too much in it….leading coffee to slosh from it….like into the saucer, which contained the overflow until she drank from it….although I never do it (especially if Kris is around). But which explains my love for the decorative little plaque which reads: “I am drinking from my saucer because my cup overflows.”

That line, of course, recalls the 23rd Psalm and its promise of the prepared table, the anointed head and the overflowing cup. Which is language most of us like, given that it sounds warm, welcoming, and just a little lavish. For many of the same reasons, we like the King James translation of John 14:2, wherein the Father’s house is described as a place of “many mansions” rather than “many rooms”….“rooms” sounding Spartan in a Motel 6 kind of way….“mansions” sounding extravagant in a Donald Trump kind of way. Images? Of course they’re images! But pay attention to the kinds of images that attract you. In their own way, they speak volumes about you.

The “overflowing cup” sounds like the “never-empty coffee cup” one restaurant offers me, and like the Big Gulp cup that 7-Eleven sells me. We’re talking “filling,” aren’t we? Along with “satisfying,” aren’t we? I think so. At least, that’s the Bible’s promise.

And the church’s offer.

            Eat this bread. Drink this cup.

            Come to me and never be hungry.

            Eat this bread. Drink this cup.

            Come to me and you will not thirst.

Didn’t we sing that, mere minutes ago? Yes, I believe we did. Twice, for good measure. And on other Sundays, don’t we sing:

            Bread of heaven, bread of heaven,

            Feed me till I want no more.

            Feed me till I want no more.

Why, yes we do. I know we do.

Of course, there was that lady two churches back who showed up every time we had a potluck or a smorgasbord. We never saw her in the sanctuary. We never saw her in a class. But lay some food on a buffet table and there she was. And she would fill her plate….I mean really fill it. But she wouldn’t necessarily eat it. Instead, she’d put what was on it into her purse or in her coat pockets….sometimes in little plastic baggies, but sometimes not. Then she’d get back in line and do it over again. But church people, being the nice, non-confrontational people they usually are, nobody ever went up to her and said: “Lady, what in the world do you think you’re doing?” Instead, they came up to me and said: “Check out that lady over there. She’s doing some really weird stuff with her food.”

But you cannot imagine my surprise when, one Christmas day, we went to Kris’ mother’s house for turkey and dressing, and there she was. Kris’ mother had met her at a community event and felt badly that she looked so much the stranger. So she took her in. And the lady put food in her purse that day, too. Then, just for good measure, she put my niece’s brand-new, just-out-of-the-box Christmas doll in her over-the-shoulder bag and walked out with it. And none of us said anything. Because we were dumbfounded….it being Christmas….and, if she really needed it….

Now I know what you’re thinking. You are thinking that she was poor and starving. Which was far from true. She was neither. Her problem (as we came to find out) was more spiritual than material. She had plenty….including plenty to eat. In point of fact, she was anorexic….meaning that in some strange way that even the $150 an hour people don’t understand, her head was preoccupied with food. She wanted to be around it. She needed to handle it (as well as hoard it). But she hardly ever ate it.

Still, in ways we never fully grasped, she was an emptiness in need of filling. Who came to the right place. And hung with the right people. But loaded up on the wrong stuff. Whatever ailed her wasn’t going to be cured by one more purseful of succotash or a Tiny Tears (she walks, she talks, she even wets the carpet) dolly lifted from the gift pile of sweet little Jennifer.

Sometimes succotash can do it, I suppose. And sometimes a dolly can do it, I suppose. Satisfy the need, I mean. Quiet the rumblings….calm the fears….ease the pain….all of the above. But not long term. Because, by the end of the day, you’ll pass the succotash. And by the end of the year, you’ll outgrow the dolly. Which is why Jesus said to the curious in John’s gospel: “Why don’t you try soul food rather than stomach food?” Which only confused the curious. Their only concern was how to get directions to the nearest soul food store. But Jesus was talking about himself, don’t you see. Yes, he was talking about himself. Because, at the end of the day, both the cynics and the preachers are right. It is who we know.

I don’t know the Rev. Dr. Judith Walker Riggs. But after reading this, I think I want to. She writes:

In 1959, living in London, young and much taken with the glamour of the city, one twilight evening walking home I was idly looking in lit basement windows. One set of windows looked into a large kitchen. I realized I was at the back side of that exclusive London hotel, Claridges.

Claridges’ ancient kitchen had light bulbs on strings and a wall of ancient blackened ovens. As I watched, a harried assistant ran up to the wall of ovens, pulled open a door, and dragged out an enormous tray of 20 just-roasted Rock Cornish Hens.

Then the assistant dropped the tray. Twenty birds skittered over the floor. You think the ovens were ancient and crusted! What the harried assistant slipped on, and what these chickens hit, was a floor so black, so greasy, so sticky and so slimy with the dregs of decades, it was impossible to tell underneath those mud flats what the actual floor even was.

Some very elegant and expensive diners upstairs were going to get very impatient before another 20 birds got roasted, I thought.

How wrong I was. Without missing a beat, the man picked the capons off the floor (one by one), brushing each on his already disgusting apron, neatly placing it on a little individual silver tray garnished with a ruffle of herbs. And up they went to the dining room.

Can’t you just see 20 sophisticated and hungry Londoners about to eat food that had been on a floor you wouldn’t want to walk on without boots (or at least rubber-clad shoes)? It happens.

Momentarily, we are going to invite your participation in the Supper of the Lord. The point of my little story being not to tell you that this bread has been on the floor, but that the Lord of this bread has been on the floor. As to where you are….ankle deep in the spills….or upstairs with the gentry and the sherry….I can’t rightly say. All I can say is that this table is set for you. So eat.…drink….and be very glad.

Dearly Beloved… 8/4/2002

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Ruth 1:1-18             

I was wrong in my Steeple Notes column when I said that none of us welcomes worshipers to a wedding with the phrase “Dearly Beloved” anymore. No sooner did that appear in print, but Rod Quainton said that he still does. Which only proves that from the various and sundry clergy at First Church, you not only get quality but variety.

Which is good, because weddings no longer fit into the “one size fits all” category. So we find ourselves broadening the parameters almost weekly. Just two days ago, Lisa did a wedding which featured a dog (in a tux) as the ring bearer. There was, I am sure, a story behind it. But she’ll have to tell it. We’ve all loosened up a bit, even those who address the rest of us as “beloved.”

In a month that has been anything but light and airy for yours truly, I did experience a delightful diversion at a movie entitled My Big Fat Greek Wedding. At least it struck me just right. It was both funny and fresh. It was also warm-hearted (as Roger Ebert noted) in the way that a movie can be when it knows its people inside-out.

In terms of plot, it’s about a Greek girl who marries a non-Greek boy. Which is good from her family’s standpoint, given their fear that she might never make it to the altar. But which is bad from her family’s standpoint, because it never occurred to them that standing next to her at the altar would be a groom who wasn’t Greek. His family is similarly chagrined, although you never get the feeling that all of this cultural dissimilarity is going to blow up in their faces. Instead, you sense that while they are going to fuss over it, they are eventually going to get beyond it. Which they do by the time of the reception….at which everybody seems to be having one heck of a lot of fun (making me glad I forked over $8.50 to attend, if only at a distance). Just thinking about it makes me hungry for baklava.

In the scene that struck me as especially poignant, the ceremony is unfolding in a Greek Orthodox church which is filled on one side of the aisle with her “people,” including 27 first cousins, 16 of whom are named “Nick.”  While the entire other side of the church is empty, save for three pews of his “people”….meaning that either he doesn’t have many “people,” or that what “people” he has chose not to come. Which is why, years ago, I started instructing ushers at rehearsals:

Whatever you do, don’t ask anybody anything. Especially, don’t ask anybody whether they are friends of the bride or friends of the groom. If sitting on the wrong side is going to ruin their day, trust me, they’ll tell you. If not, put ‘em anywhere. Just give me an even split. And if you come within 15 bodies of a fifty/fifty house, you can have three of anything at the reception. The bride’s mother told me I could make that offer.

I say that because I’ve done weddings with 150 on one side and 15 on the other. Which looks terrible pictorially and wrong theologically. I mean, how can there be a “wrong side” at a wedding? And isn’t one primary reason in attending to recognize that “whereas we were once ‘friends of the bride’ or ‘friends of the groom,’ starting from this day forward, we are now ‘friends of the couple’”?

Love can do that, you know….lower old walls and build new bridges, I mean. Even when the cultures seem foreign and the languages, strange. It is clear that the groom’s parents, looking lonely on their side of the sanctuary, don’t understand one word of what the Greek Orthodox priest is saying. Which leads the father of the groom to whisper words to his wife which look (for all the world) like “It’s Greek to me.” Which it was, of course….Greek to him….Greek to them….Greek to everybody. But, as languages go, the New Testament was written in it….making it “Greek” to all of us. So none of us have reason to get uppity about anything.

Moments ago, I read to you from the story of Ruth….language we love from a tale we love. But, as stories go, it takes place in an era of which we know next to nothing. It describes a time before King David (perhaps as early as 1100 BC). But it was written (in its present form) at least 600 years after that. As to why, it’s hard to say. Except that in Nehemiah 13:23-25, we read of King Nehemiah’s attempt to annul all mixed marriages. So Ruth may have been written as the party platform of a more liberal group of Jews, a group with greater tolerance toward foreigners, even to the point of accepting such into marriage. But no one’s sure. Still, as one who is soon to co-officiate (for one of our members) with a rabbi at a local temple 13 days from now….the only rabbi and the only temple in Michigan where such is possible….I can understand how this could have been an issue once, and how the Book of Ruth may have been a political statement every bit as much as a romantic folk tale.

For Ruth was a non-Jew (don’t you see), hailing from Moab (which today is Jordan). And Moab was as foreign to Judah then as Jordan is to Israel now. But the story doesn’t begin with Ruth. It begins with Elimelech and Naomi (Ephrathites from the town of Bethlehem). With their two sons in tow, Elimelech and Naomi go to Moab in search of food and prosperity. Whereupon they settle there and both boys take Moabite wives. Then everybody dies. At least all of the males in the story die (which, in that day, pretty much represented everybody that mattered). The story doesn’t say how they died or makes no comment about how three otherwise-healthy men died in the relatively short span of a decade. There’s no mention of war….no mention of a plague….no mention of an accident. But this is a story, remember. Don’t get picky. We have three men. We have three women. Suddenly all of the men are dead. And we’ve got a woman who wants to go home.

More to the point, what we have is a Jewish mother-in-law and her two Moabite daughters-in-law. The two daughters-in-law say to Naomi: “If you want to go home, we’ll go with you.” Naomi tells them: “Don’t be foolish. There’s no life for you there.” So one stays in Moab. But one goes with Naomi to the land of the Jews, even though she (herself) isn’t a Jew. The one who goes with Naomi is Ruth. And concerning that decision (which her mother-in-law accepts, even though she thinks it’s dumb), Ruth says: “Please don’t ask me to leave you or forbid me from following you. For wherever you go, I will go. Wherever you lodge, I will lodge. Your people shall be my people. Your God, my God. And wherever you die and are buried, that’s where I’ll die and be buried.”

And sopranos have been singing those words at weddings ever since (even though, as originally spoken, they had nothing to do with a wedding and represented, not the heartfelt devotion of matrimony, but the cross-cultural bonding of family). Eventually, Naomi finds Ruth a husband….a Jewish husband….a rich Jewish husband. But that comes later in the story. And for those of you addicted to True Confession magazine, the search for Ruth’s husband involves a little discreetly-described premarital hanky-panky. As endings go, the conclusion to the Book of Ruth is more fairy tale-ish than it needs to be and, as such, does not concern me here.

So what does concern me here? Why should we remember Ruth today? I suppose we should start with Matthew’s genealogy which lists Ruth as one of the lower branches of Jesus’ family tree. Through her second husband, Boaz, Ruth became the mother of Obed….who was the father of Jesse….who was the father of David. And every Christmas Eve we read of Jesus “being of the house and lineage of David.” Which is interesting. But I doubt that you are going to go to brunch today and marvel (over your omelet) that a twice-married woman who wasn’t even Jewish by birth is buried in Jesus’ family cemetery somewhere.

Or I suppose we could remember Ruth’s incredible kindness to Naomi and talk about the biblically-recommended way to treat your mother-in-law. But I’ll leave that for you to work out on your own. As mothers-in-law go, mine was great while I had her. And I only hope that, while I had her, I did right by her. I think I did.

No, my intent in reading Ruth this morning has less to do with genealogy or in-law relationships than with covenants….a “covenant” being a wonderful biblical word about a deal that God makes with people, and then challenges them to make with each other. A covenant is the closest thing to an unconditional deal that I can describe….meaning a permanent deal, a durable deal, a “till death us do part” deal. I mean, isn’t that what Ruth promises Naomi? I think that’s what she says. “Don’t try to dump me, because I have every intention of walking beside you in life and lying beside you in death.” More amazing still, Ruth doesn’t ask the terms of the deal before inking the deal. In point of fact, terms have nothing to do with the deal.

Most of us worry about terms….what they include….what they don’t include….whether they are favorable or unfavorable….and whether they are clearly spelled out (as opposed to having some of them hidden). Robert Frost voiced popular opinion when he wrote: “Good fences make good neighbors.” But I know all kinds of people who (today) care not one whit about fences, but who would amend Frost to read: “Good contracts make good neighbors.” People want to get things written down. Preferably, with notary.

I may have told you before how contracts differ from covenants in marriage. Contracts define terms and set limits. I’ll do this….you do that. I’ll bring this….you bring that. These are my jobs….these are your jobs. My part….your part. My share….your share. Which quickly becomes my half….your half.

And since contracts are often expressed mathematically, the idea of “my half, your half” quickly becomes a fifty/fifty relationship. But I’ll tell you what happens to most fifty/fifty relationships. They fail, that’s what happens to them. And I’ll tell you why they fail. In fact, I’ll tell you personally why they fail. Because many days, I don’t bring fifty. A lot of days, I don’t bring forty. Several days, I don’t bring thirty. Occasionally, not even twenty. And every now and again, I fall short of ten. Sad to say, there are days when I come totally empty of hand, bringing nothing. Zilch. Zero. Nothing there. Cupboard’s bare.

And if on those days Krissy stops at fifty….saying: “Here it is, everything I said I would bring (just as we agreed)”….she will have done her half, delivered her share and fulfilled her contractual obligation. But if she stops at fifty, we’ve still got a gap, don’t you see. On the days I come with nothing, either she brings it all or we don’t connect.

But here’s the hard part. Most people can do that in the short run. She can bring it all one day, because she knows she’ll need it all the next. Which is nicer than fifty/fifty. But is still contractual, don’t you see.

Unconditional love (if such a thing is humanly possible….you tell me) says: “Even if it never comes back….even if days stretch into weeks, weeks stretch into months, months stretch into years, and I am forever the hundred and you are forever the zero, I will not cut you off, pull the plug or let you go.”

Like I said, I don’t know if that’s possible. I hear a lot of loose talk about unconditional love. It’s a lot harder than anybody thinks it is. After all, we all have our limits. But isn’t that the ideal we describe at weddings? We talk about the biblical model for marriage as being the love of Christ for the church. I think that means “all the way….without thought of cost, price or even return.”

Miroslav Volf of Yale writes (in what appears to be a wedding homily):

Here’s one way to put it. Soon you will want to purchase a home. If you are lucky, you will get a good deal. And what’s a good deal? A good deal is paying less than the house is worth. A fair deal is paying exactly what the house is worth. And a raw deal is having to pay more than the house is worth.

But in a relationship, it is just the opposite. To give less and get more is selfish. To give exactly in proportion to receiving is fair. But to give more and expect less is love. So is love a raw deal? Contractually, yes. Covenantally, no.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not equating marriage with martyrdom. And I know that all giving and no getting isn’t likely to make you very happy. It may, however, make you more Christ-like. And there is also this. The closer you can come to loving without conditions, the more likely it is that the love you give will begin to transform you, whether it does anything for anybody else. That transformation takes place from the inside out. And, over time, that transformation will make you incredibly attractive and very hard to resist.

One of the things about being with somebody for a long time is that you spend fewer and fewer days wondering whether you got a good deal or a raw deal (and please, don’t raise that question while cutting into your omelet). The reason the “good deal/raw deal” question matters less and less over time is because you have become the “real deal.” It happens, you know. To Greeks. And others, too. Opa!

Can Anybody Find Me a Witch? 10/20/2002

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: I Samuel: 28:3-19

Desperation makes people do funny things. Desperation makes some people sweat and swear. It makes other people shake and scream. In response to desperation, some people flee while other people fight. A few react by killing others. While others react by killing themselves. I have known desperate people to reach for things like a bottle, a capsule, or a body to hold in the night. Sometimes desperate people reach for God, albeit often as a last resort.

“Desperation” is a funny word. It sounds urgent….immediate….dramatic. It has a “right now” ring of intensity to it. But the root word of “desperation” is “despair.” Despair does not sound urgent at all. Despair sounds slow and quiet. People talk about “sinking into despair,” inviting us to picture them in slow-acting quicksand, being sucked below the surface of normality a couple of inches at a time.

As Exhibit A, I give you Saul, a suddenly desperate man, but one who has been despairing for a long time. When we meet up with him in this morning’s text, we find him riding the “down escalator” of life. He is on his way out….out of favor….out of power….out of options….and almost out of days. His star is burning out. David’s star is rising up. Several floors back, their escalators passed, with David’s ascending and Saul’s descending. History doesn’t record if either waved.

Why can’t people stay on top? Why is there always someone better, brighter, faster, fairer or younger in the wings? Put this on the list of perplexing questions you are planning to ponder when you retire. All we know is that Saul’s confidence is shot. But he’s far from the first one. It happens lots of times….to lots of people….in lots of places. Even in the suburbs. It is a myth that people who live in the suburbs “have it all together.” ‘Tis not necessarily so. Despair is no respecter of subdivisions. After all, Saul lived in a big house. Kings usually do.

But we need to back up a bit. A little stage setting would seem to be in order. After all, who is Saul and why should we care? Saul is the first great king of Israel. But since great kings, like a lot of other things, come in threes, we seldom hear Saul’s name mentioned by itself. He is always referred to as part of a trio (Saul, David and Solomon). Strangely enough, although page after page of the Old Testament is devoted to Saul, we don’t know many factual things about him. We do not know the length of Saul’s reign, the dates of Saul’s reign, or how old Saul was when he began to reign. An educated guess suggests that he reigned at least 20 years and died about 1000 B.C. His public life began with great promise. He possessed all of the physical and moral attributes of a king. We are told he had an imposingly-large physique (the more I read about Saul, the more I picture Kirk Gibson, albeit with a better beard). Saul had initiative. Saul had courage. Saul had charisma. But, best of all, Saul had “the spirit of the Lord mightily upon him.” (I Sam. 11:6)

Which was a good thing, considering the obstacles in Saul’s path. In terms of governance, there was no central monarchy prior to Saul. The Israelite confederacy was at a critically low ebb. Israel was ruled by a collection of regional judges, divided by tribal loyalties and awash in political jealousies. Picture county executives, if it helps you. But the weakness of Israel from within was small potatoes compared with Israel’s vulnerability to attack from without. That’s because Saul had to put up with the Philistines who opposed him, outnumbered him, and forced his minimal army to go into battle with unsharpened weapons. Which is a great story (I Sam. 13:19), but irrelevant to my purpose here.

Still, Saul prevailed, delivering Israel out of the hands of those who plundered her (I Sam. 14:47). But then Saul made his tragic mistake. And let me warn you, this will show you how unbelievably primitive this story really is. Following a victorious battle against the Amelekites, Saul failed to observe an ancient practice among the Hebrews known as the “Herem.” This practice required that every last vestige of a defeated enemy be destroyed on the spot. This was to be done as an act of devotion to God. Apparently, Saul went into battle against the people of Amelek. He was victorious. And he killed virtually all of the people. But Saul spared the life of the Amelekite king. He also spared the best of the sheep, goats and cattle. As his reward for being merciful to the enemy, he was deemed unfit to be king, and it was announced that God’s favoritism was being removed from Saul. Having disobeyed God’s command to slaughter everything in sight, God’s spirit would no longer “rest mightily upon him.” Instead, God’s spirit would come to rest upon the shoulders of another.

Who said so? Samuel said so. And who was Samuel? Well, it would appear that Samuel was a little bit of a lot of things. He was a busybody who also fancied himself as a king-maker. In terms of self-identification, he sometimes called himself a prophet, sometimes a priest, and still other times a seer. But he always seemed to know what God was thinking. What’s more, he was not terribly shy about telling people what God was thinking. The amazing thing was that people listened. And so when Samuel said that you were on God’s blacklist, the effect of his pronouncement was to make it so. Why? Because Samuel said it, that’s why. Which was the turning point for Saul. It was all downhill from there. To be sure, Saul continued on as king until his death. But from Samuel’s pronouncement forward, he was not only in the process of losing his kingdom, but he stood in the tragic awareness that he had already lost.

Enter David. Samuel privately found him, privately anointed him, and privately bestowed God’s blessing upon him. Then he publicly announced to anyone and everyone that the spirit of the Lord had departed from Saul and come to rest upon David. Worse yet, Samuel announced that the Lord had sent another spirit to Saul….an evil spirit….for the purpose of tormenting him. But the bitter irony was this. This man upon whom God’s spirit now rested….this David….this rising one…. this one waiting in the wings for Saul’s job….had a special gift that could soothe Saul’s troubled spirit. Which was why David was brought into the service of Saul, and why “Saul loved him greatly.” We read:

And whenever the evil spirit was upon Saul, David took the lyre and played it with his hands. Whereupon Saul was refreshed and the evil spirit fled him for awhile.

And from this point forward, the historian tells the story in ways that are meant to build David up while tearing Saul down. We are told that David is “ruddy,” “handsome,” and that he has “beautiful eyes.” The Hebrew will even allow for a translation that reads “bedroom eyes” (which will become important in a subsequent story). Furthermore, we read that David is “skilled at music….a genius at justice….prudent in speech….a man of good presence….and a man of valor in war.” Apparently, there is nothing David cannot do. Scarcely out of his teens, he confronts the giant known as Goliath of Gath. Many have suggested that Goliath was “too big to hit.” Instead, David looked at Goliath and said: “He’s too big to miss.” The most amazing thing is that there is reason to doubt that David killed Goliath at all. It is quite likely that the historian of this period took a few liberties, and that Goliath was most likely slain by Elhanan, son of Jereorejim, the Bethlehemite.

But David is victorious in enough other places so that women begin to sing and dance as they roam the streets, crying:

Saul has slain his thousands,

and David, his tens of thousands.

Ah, what a cruel blow, coming as it does from the songs of street women.

Saul’s torment deepens. Three times he makes an attempt on David’s life. Three times he fails. Saul’s daughter, Michal, becomes David’s wife. Saul’s son, Jonathan, becomes David’s best friend. All of which deepens the guilt Saul feels over his jealousy. But he can’t rid himself of it. So he drives David into exile. But even with David safely at a distance, there is no easing of Saul’s anguish.

Now, as we catch up with him this morning, everything is coming unraveled. Saul is tired. Samuel is dead. David is hiding. And, once more, the Philistines are back….in spades. When Saul sees the size of the Philistine camp, he becomes so frightened that his heart beats violently. He inquires of God. But there is no answer. God does not answer through a dream. And God does not answer through the rolling of the stones (something akin to the rolling of dice). So Saul says: “Get me a witch. We will have ourselves a little séance. We will awaken Samuel from the dead. He will tell us what God has in store.” To which one of his servants says: “That’s going to be a little hard to do, O King, since you kicked all of the witches and wizards out of the land.”  Leading Saul to scratch his chin and say: “I guess I did, didn’t I? But I don’t care. I need a witch. So find one.” Which is when someone says: “I think there is one in Endor.”

So Saul disguises himself and goes to Endor by night. Meeting the witch, he commands her: “Divine for me a ghost. Raise up the man I now name for you.” But this witch is no dumb cookie. She has fled to Endor because she values her scalp. What’s more, she recognizes Saul’s voice (from his many speeches on television, no doubt). So she says: “I know a trap when I see one.”

Saul responds by saying something that sounds like: “Shut up. Do what I tell you. This little matter will remain between the two of us. Do you think I want anybody to know what I am doing here? Divine for me the ghost I have named and nothing will happen to you.” So the witch of Endor goes into a trance and congers up an old man in a robe. Convinced that he is Samuel, Saul engages the ghost in conversation.

Samuel:  “What do you want?”

Saul:  “The Philistines are about to wage war against me. God has departed. He answers me no more. Please tell me the future.”

Samuel:  “You don’t want to know.”

Saul:  “Who will win tomorrow?”

Samuel:  “Don’t ask.”

Saul:  “What will happen to me?”

Samuel:  “By this time tomorrow, you shall be with me. Your sons shall be with me. And your army shall be delivered into the hands of the Philistines.”

So, on the eve of death, the one who is nearly dead turns to one who is already dead, only to receive a message about dying.

As stories go, it is as primitive as it is powerful. And, as stories go, it is not very kind to Saul. But neither is it very kind to God. Still, there are messages to be found. Let me briefly suggest two. The first is a message about avoidance….ours. The second is a message about abandonment…. God’s. First things first.

There is no avoiding the struggles of life. There is no immunity, even for kings. Neither are shortcuts offered to desperate men. “Send me a witch,” cries Saul. He might as well be saying: “Send me an answer to everything that vexes me.” Bringing commentary to bear upon this text, John Schroeder writes: “Isn’t it just like primitive religion to offer such devices?” But primitive religion is very much in vogue. Its modern-day counterparts are everywhere. We have mediums and astrologer. We also have newspapers where one can read one’s daily horoscope. We have no lack of simplifiers who provide short solutions to long problems, forgetting that there are many human problems which must simply be lived through. “Character,” says Howard Kohn, “is the sum total of everything we have struggled against.” Warming to his task, he adds: “How stupid of the church to advertise its central message as having to do with getting rid of our tensions and learning to relax. It is a small wonder that people come to regard churches as secondary bedrooms, where they can supplement on Sunday morning the sleep they didn’t quite get their fill of on Saturday night.”

The function of religion is not to secure for its people easier lives, but to build within its people stronger souls. And high on the list of hard things that cannot be avoided is the unknown character of the future. The golf pro tells me in soft, measured tones, to visualize a desirable result….visualize a sweet, slow backswing….visualize a smooth, steady follow-through…. visualize my Titleist 2 elevating quickly, soaring majestically, landing softly, and rolling to a stop six inches from the pin. My golf pro does it all for me and my ball. Except hit it. That’s not included in the fee I pay for my lesson. There are no shortcuts, even for those who can afford the price of a seer. Forget the witch. That’s my word on avoidance. Don’t.

And here’s my word on abandonment. God won’t. I told you that the story of Saul and the witch of Endor was a primitive one. I warned you that it would give you a primitive God….a God of fickle favoritism. Saul’s God is one who likes some people and sours on other people. Saul’s God withdraws from the people he sours on, conveniently arranging to be out to lunch when people on the blacklist call. But take heart. Israel lived to write the story of a better God. Word of that God is sprinkled all over the Old Testament. I give you one sample from the Psalmist…. Psalm 139 to be exact.

            O Lord, you have searched me and known me.

            You know when I sit down and when I rise up;

            you discern my thoughts from far away.

            You search out my path and my lying down,

            and are acquainted with all my ways.

            Even before a word is on my tongue,

            O Lord, you know it completely.

            You hem me in, behind and before,

            and lay your hand upon me.

            Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;

            it is so high that I cannot attain it.

            Where can I go from your spirit?

            Or where can I flee from your presence?

            If I ascend to heaven, you are there;

            if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

            If I take the wings of the morning

            and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

            even there your hand shall lead me,

            and your right hand shall hold me fast.

            If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,

            and the light around me become night,”

            even the darkness is not dark to you;

            the night is as bright as the day,

            for darkness is as light to you.

But let me tell you what I’ve learned about that language. I learned that the phrase “take the wings of the morning” is a euphemism for death. As is the phrase “to dwell in the outermost parts of the sea.” The psalmist is saying, even if I take the wings of the morning….even if I dwell in the outermost parts of the sea….meaning, even if I die….even if the lights go out in Georgia (or in my life)….even if my body is blown to pieces by the sniper and is scattered over the surface of a Ponderosa parking lot in northern Virginia….even there God’s hand shall meet me and God’s right hand shall hold me.

I just spent four days with 23 of my big-church pastor friends in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. These are 23 preachers who are good for me….good to me….heck, just plain good. But the bottom is falling out for one of them. He’s hanging on to the pastorate of the second largest Methodist church in Indiana by a thread. But the thread is in the process of snapping on him….or being cut for him. He’ll be history soon….done, soon….out, soon….thrown unceremoniously from the escalator, soon.

“How are you handling it?” I asked. To which came the answer: “There are a lot of mornings when, if I didn’t have my Psalms and my Zoloft, I don’t know if I would get out of bed.”

Well, as for Zoloft, I won’t knock what I haven’t tried. As for the Psalms, I will push what I have tried. But this much I know. Both beat the witch.

Note: The story from I Samuel 28 is customarily referenced under the heading “Saul and the Witch of Endor,” even though more modern translations substitute the word “medium” for the word “witch.” Witches were commonly held to have existed in the ancient Near East and were doubtless known to the Israelites. The Old Testament contains lists of such persons under various names (no longer precisely definable) but which certainly included witches. The longest such list is found in Deuteronomy 18:10-11 where involvement with such persons is strictly forbidden. The so-called Witch of Endor falls within this category, but is more properly referred to a necromancer or medium.

Before Winter 9/8/2002

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: II Timothy 4:9-5, 19-21

As most of you know, we now have all of the formal approvals we need from the City of Birmingham to build our Christian Life Center, and it is our intention to break ground as part of our anniversary celebration on Sunday, September 29 at 12:30. Many of you even attended one or more city meetings which stretched over eleven months from beginning to end.

Strangely enough, it was the most mundane of those meetings that produced a moment of high drama. The date was Monday, August 12. The setting was the City Commission. Little appeared to be at stake, which is why we made no effort to drum up a crowd. A few of us appeared before the Commission, not to present anything, but to formally request a place on the next meeting’s agenda….the meeting scheduled for Monday, August 26. It all sounded routine, especially with our ducks in a row and eleven months of practice behind us.

Little did we know that the Commission was staring at a mountain of unfinished business and was seeking to delay anything and everything it could. Hence, they proposed that we have our final review, not on August 26, but one month later on September 23. After all, “this month, next month, what’s the difference?” Quickly, we had to explain the difference. One month’s delay would slow the permit process….itself, a six-week effort. No permits, no site work. No site work, no bulldozers and back hoes. No bulldozers and back hoes (before the ground freezes), no footings and no asphalt. Meaning nothing to park on….or build on….till spring. All of sudden the critical question became: “Does anybody know when the asphalt plants close for the winter?”  When the commissioners heard “the first week in November,” you could sense the tide turning in our favor. Which is how we got on the August agenda, just as we hoped.

All of which brought back memories of an era when the coming of winter forced people to act with greater urgency than is required today. At the house in which I was raised, we had to get the screens down and the storms up….before winter. Out in the garden, we had to get the daffodils into the ground and the dahlias out of the ground….before winter. And when it came to the car, there were things like antifreeze, studs and tire chains to consider….before winter. Even today, one hears commercialized warnings directed at those who would fail to winterize. And there’s always the necessity of a flu shot. Again, before winter.

With that in mind, I would launch our program year by holding up a little phrase from Paul’s second letter to Timothy which breathes the same urgency. As the letter unfolds, Paul is in a Roman jail….dying. At this point in his life he is down to three close and abiding friends….the Master whom he serves….the doctor (Luke) who serves him….and a young half-caste apprentice, Timothy, who Paul has left in charge of the church at Ephesus. So he writes Timothy from jail, asking him to come to Rome and bring his books and his old travel-stained robe. To these requests, he adds a postscript: “Do your best to come quickly. Come before winter.”

Why before winter? A pair of reasons suggest themselves. One has to do with mobility. The other with mortality. Mobility means that winter may render the Mediterranean unnavigable, with bitter gales closing the shipping lanes till spring. Mortality means that Paul doesn’t figure to be around come spring.

Before winter or never. It sounds harsh, doesn’t it? But the truth is, there are things that will never get done if they are not completed before winter. There are certain doors, open now, that the winds of winter will surely slam shut. And there are certain voices, available now, which winter may silence forever. Most obvious, of course, is the voice of some significant other. Not everybody we know and love is going to weather another winter. Had Timothy dallied till spring, he would have arrived in Rome to find Paul silent in the ground.

This awareness of winter’s inevitability injects a certain urgency into every human relationship. It has long been rumored that mothers tell their daughters they should never go out of the house without clean underwear, lest they become involved in an accident and wind up in an emergency room. For similar reasons, Kris and I never go away for more than a day without making sure the house is clean and the dishes are out of the sink, lest there should come a day when we don’t return to the house and someone else has to come in and sift the stuff of our lives. The tragedy is that all kinds of people who die with clean underwear and no dishes in the sink, also die with words on their lips they wish they could have spoken, or words in their ears they wish they could have heard.

Fred was flying on one of those small jets from somewhere to San Diego. You know the ones I mean, the jets that have three seats on one side of the aisle and two on the other. He was one of the two….on the aisle. She was the other one of the two….next to the window. She was a stranger….traveling alone….forty-ish….and crying. Fred, being a minister, figured it was his professional duty to respond to the crying. Which he did by saying: “It would seem that this is not a very happy trip for you.”

“No,” she said, “it isn’t. I’m going to my father’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry,” said Fred. “I can tell by your tears that you and your father were very close.”

“No, on the contrary, I haven’t spoken to my father….written to my father….called my father…. seen my father….in seventeen years. Seventeen years.”

“Really?”

“In fact,” she said, “the last time I saw him, I was in his home. We got into a quarrel. I got up from the table, threw my napkin on my plate, and as I slammed the door leaving his house, I said: ‘You can go to hell.’ That’s the last thing I said to my father. And now he’s dead.”

One of life’s lousier moments is when we realize that we never got around to saying what somebody has now slipped beyond the range of hearing. Because of winter.

Not everything in our personal lives can be put on hold. Some things, yes. Other things, no. It’s true for relationships. It’s also true for opportunities. I don’t know if opportunity knocks but once. They say that. But do they really know that? And who are “they,” anyway? Still, folk wisdom is often grounded in reality. And next week (unless I miss my bet), at least twenty of you are going to tell me about a door that was there to be walked through, had you taken advantage of the limited time it was open. Where time was concerned, you thought you had plenty. And where the door was concerned, you thought it was permanently wedged. But you didn’t. And it wasn’t. Instead, the door came spring-loaded. And when it slammed in your face, it felt like….well, you know what it felt like….it felt like winter. Brrr.

This is true in public life, every bit as much as in private life. People who practice statecraft know that there is often a moment in the affairs of nations….an open window in the escalation of conflict….which, if seized in time, can arrest a slide into disaster. Isn’t the real sadness of the Middle East the number of such moments that have been missed, leading historians to say: “The window was there. Maybe only for a few days. Maybe only for a few hours. But nobody took advantage of it before winter blew it shut.”

Labor negotiators know the same thing. Settlements signal themselves with whispers, long before they speak themselves with offers. But if nobody is attentive to the whispers, there are no offers. I saw baseball at Wrigley Field on Monday, as I was pretty sure I would. Because, for the first time in memory, the participants seized the opportunity available to them and behaved sensibly, proclaiming that “the need to get it done” took precedence over the need to get it all.

But the most important voice of seasonal urgency is not the voice of a significant other, nor the voice of public or private opportunity. It is the voice of the Lord Jesus Christ. As you know, I am as willing to explore the social and psychological aspects of the Christian faith as any preacher. But I have never lost my sense of the centrality of Christian conversion. The church which fails to preach conversion has no gospel. And the church which fails to harvest converts is as disobedient as it is dumb.

But the Christian faith did not begin around an oval table in a first century seminar room, with a bunch of people pondering “Messianic musings in the Middle East” (“Well, Eli, tell us what people up your way are thinking about Jesus.”). No, the Christian faith began beside a lake when Jesus laid it on the line to a couple of guys about who he was and who they were….and then (at some point in the conversation) said: “So are you guys coming or fishing?”

Sooner or later, it comes down to just such a decision….about who is going to be the central loyalty of your life….whose name you are going to name….whose banner you are going to carry….whose kingdom you are going to seek….and in whose army you are going to march. When the surrounding culture is a quasi-Christian culture, maybe you can backburner such a decision and drift in the general direction of the prevailing ethos. But I’ve got news for you. The prevailing culture is no longer Christian. Which means that you no longer can….go with its flow, I mean. Drifters need to become deciders.

And even if you’ve already made that decision, I think you need to freshen it from time to time. In the space reserved for “denominational preference,” a lady once penciled in the words “Jehovah’s bystander.” When pressed for an explanation, she said: “I used to be a Witness, but I sorta became disinvolved.” So have a lot of us, lady. So have a lot of us.

Let me re-offer a confession. There are times I worry that I have done you a disservice as your preacher….especially in my preaching about grace. You know that I am “bullish” on grace. You know I think that God’s mercy and love are going to be there for you, whether you avail yourselves of them early or late. You know of my belief that anybody who will go to the cross for you will not let any barrier (including your cussedness, your hardness of heart, or even your death) get in the way of his desire to wait you out, track you down and bring you home.

Nor would I backtrack on any of that. But my fear is that you will hear me preach such things (especially when I do so with passion and eloquence) and will say: “No rush. No big deal. I’ve got all the time in the world. And if I push the envelope of Ritter’s sermons to the outer limit, maybe I’ve got all the time in the next world, too.”

I suppose you can test that out. But I hope you don’t. Not because of the eternal consequences, but because of the immediate ones. A sweet young girl (filled to the brim with Jesus) dials my telephone and asks: “If you die tonight, do you know where you will spend eternity?” And a part of me wants to answer: “Sweetheart, I am prepared to leave eternity in God’s hands, but if you’ve got anything that will help me figure out tomorrow, I’m willing to listen. I need all the help I can get right now.”

Let me put it as bluntly as I can. This is my tenth year as your pastor, I think I know you pretty well. And one of the things I know about you is that you are as bullish on grace as I am….. meaning that there are probably not more than ten of you who have spent ten minutes in the last ten years worrying about your fitness for eternity. You ask me all kinds of questions. In fact, you’d be amazed at the range of questions that you put before me. But I can’t recall more than one or two of you ever inquiring about your prospects for eternity. As a congregation, you’re a pretty confident lot. So I am not likely to motivate you to make a present commitment in order to secure a future reward. Which, given my theology, I am not inclined to do anyway. But what I have said….loud and clear….early and late….yesterday, today and (as God gives me voice) most likely tomorrow….is that the purpose of saying “Yes” to Jesus Christ today is for the sake of today.

Think about it this way. I didn’t marry my wife when I did, just so I’d have somebody to grow old with, retire with, or rock in the nursing home with. Kris wasn’t some kind of insurance policy against the day when my bladder failed and my friends baled. I married her because I believed that, whether I could live one day longer without her, I didn’t want to….and figured it was stupid to go on pretending otherwise.

So there I stood at 3:00 on July 2, 1966 in a sanctuary eerily reminiscent of this one. Right down front I stood….two preachers before me….three friends beside me….an organ swelling around me….goose bumps rising all over me….sweat dripping….heart racing….hands shaking….five thousand to the left of me….another five thousand to the right of me….all of them standing….she walking….toward me (of all people).  And I suddenly thought to myself: “Saints preserve us, this isn’t just ‘hanging around’ with Tina Larson anymore.”

I didn’t need to do that. At least, not right then. I probably could have strung things out for a year or two. Maybe even three.

Oh, but I did need to do that. I really did. And, by the grace of God, I was smart enough to know I did.

My friends, I’ve gotta believe there are a lot of you in this church who have been “hanging around with Jesus” for a long time….occasionally touching the fringe of his garment….listening to him speak from the relative safety of a sycamore tree….or a church balcony….or even right down front (maybe even in the choir), the better to fool your friends and fake out your preacher. I have got to believe this church is comfortably filled with the closet admirers of Jesus.

All of which would be all right, I guess, if Jesus wanted admirers. Except I doubt he does. I think he’d rather have some followers.

So what are you going to do about Jesus?

I think you need to decide sooner or later, today rather than tomorrow, now rather than sometime….not because you may die on your way home from church….but because you probably won’t.

Note:  Before reading the text from II Timothy, I explained that there are some texts I have used, and there are other texts that have used me. This is a text that has used me, ever since I first heard Colin Morris preach it nearly thirty years ago. I’ve probably visited it three or four times since. Look for Morris’ treatment of it in the book Mankind, My Church. As for the preacher and the stranger flying to San Diego, credit Fred Craddock for that one.