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.

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.

Memo to Ann Landers: Yes, I Still Do Weddings

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Genesis 2:18-24

Several years ago, Ann Landers….who I almost never read….rendered an opinion on the proper way to hang a roll of toilet paper. I don’t remember whether she said that the squares should come out from under, or down from over. But the argument raged for weeks, with readers taking sides as to whether she was right or whether she was wrong.

Which was the biggest “brouhaha” Ann’s column ever caused, until a Catholic bishop wrote and told her (in no uncertain terms) why he hated to perform weddings. His diatribe was like dynamite under a dam. Suddenly, letters flooded in from clergy of all shapes and sizes, saying that they hated weddings, too. And telling her why. There were tales of intoxicated groomsmen, overbearing mothers, erotic wedding kisses, Broadway musical selections, and sanctuaries filled with guests who didn’t look like they had the faintest idea where they were….nor did they care.

There was the story of the best man who dropped his trousers at the head of the recessional, the bride who wanted her dog to walk her down the aisle (no, she wasn’t blind), and the groom who announced to all within earshot: “Here comes the preacher who shows up anytime there is free food.” But the prize for tastelessness went to the semi-sloshed father of the bride who, in answer to the preacher’s question, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man,” responded: “Your wife and I do.”

All of which seemed to interest you more than me. You clipped the columns and dropped them on my desk, literally begging for comment. So here it is.

Clearly, Ann struck a nerve. Many clergy do not like to do weddings and figure out ways to minimize their number. Peek behind rules that churches establish (as to who can stand at the altar and who can’t) and you will often find pastors who would just as soon spend their Saturday afternoons elsewhere. In part, their reluctance is a matter of timing. If more weddings took place at 11:00 on Tuesday or 1:30 on Thursday, you might find fewer pastoral scruples against performing them. With clergy weekends already sliced-and-diced-every-which-way-from-Sunday (by all that happens on Sunday), you can see what Friday night rehearsals and Saturday weddings do to what remains of the weekend….especially when one does over 50 a year.

But there’s another issue that clergy will never talk about in public. That being money. In churches where there is not an established fee structure….including appropriate honorariums for officiant and organist….it is not uncommon for the bride’s family to spend three or four thousand dollars on flowers only to have the groom slip a rumpled ten dollar bill to the preacher. I can tell you that because it’s not a concern, personally. But late at night….behind closed doors….when the hair comes down at clergy gatherings….all you have to do is listen.

Do I do weddings? Sure! Lots of them. Fewer now, than before. No more years of 50….and I am working hard to get the number under 40. But, career-wise, I am pressing ever closer toward 1700. We do lots of weddings here. I did one last night. Rod did one yesterday afternoon. At 5:00 on Friday, I did a vow renewal ceremony for Lindsay Hinz’s parents, on the occasion of their 50th anniversary. After the renewal, they all went out for an elegant family dinner. Which made no sense to me, given that they could have gotten away at a fraction of the price at the Ice Cream Social. But I like vow renewals. That’s because they smack of success.

Do I have horror stories I could send to Ann Landers? A few. But, surprisingly, very few. There was the groom who smoked a “joint” in my bathroom. Nor will I soon forget the day we had plainclothes cops sprinkled around the building in case the bride’s old boyfriend followed through on his threat to “put somebody down for the count” if she ever married anybody but him. And then there’s my colleague’s remembrance of the four-year-old boy, neatly attired with tux and pillow, who growled all the way down the center aisle because someone told him that he was the “ring bear.” But, over the years, I’ve liked most people in most weddings….with the possible exception of videographers. And I’ve learned the art of working with them beforehand, so as to minimize my irritation with them afterward. I’ve gotten smarter as the years have gone by. One day I woke up and realized that, in this burgeoning (and somewhat lucrative) industry that we call “the wedding business,” all of us have jobs to do. And if I can help you do yours in ways that will cause minimal infringement upon mine, we will all be a lot happier….and the results will be a whole lot prettier.

Still, somebody has to be in charge. And here….in my shop….it’s me. Not the photographer. Not the videographer. Not the floral arranger or the wedding coordinator. Not the string quartet conductor, the bride’s mother, or even the bride. But me.

If that seems heavy handed, it’s not. Because I am not. In fact, I’m a bit of a pussycat. Most people find me easy….perhaps, even charming….to work with. That’s because I listen. I mean, I really listen. I listen to what you want to do. But more important, I listen to why you want to do it. Then I try to help you accomplish your objectives in ways that will make sense spiritually and artistically.

Knowing that a minimum of one wedding in three will have some underlying family tension attached to it, I work things through (carefully and in advance) with the bride and groom. That way, nothing is left to chance at the rehearsal. Wedding rehearsals are my ministry to your anxiety. Having planned carefully, I simply announce the seating arrangements involving dad’s new girlfriend (who everybody is meeting for the first time, including mom)….not to mention the in-laws who can’t abide each other and don’t speak to each other. And I would never put a floor plan issue up for grabs on Friday night, where an egocentric bridesmaid could make a grandstand play to change everything around, so that this wedding might become a carbon copy of her wedding that took place six months ago.

On the night of the rehearsal….in the midst of this swelling sea of nervousness….someone has to look like they know what they are doing. And that someone has to be me. That’s where I earn the rumpled ten dollars or whatever. In fact, I am floored by the number of times people say (with reference to the rehearsal): “Oh, you made us feel so very much at ease.” When, if the truth be told, I worry that I am being just a tad dictatorial. I comfort myself by saying that I am not imposing my will if I have listened (and negotiated) with sensitivity, beforehand. Still, as much as it may be “your day,” it is still “my shop.”

What does the Bible say about weddings? Precious little. Does the Bible tell me how to perform one? Not that I can discern. Everybody remembers the story about Jesus and the wedding that took place in Cana of Galilee. Jesus went….accompanied by his mother. He performed his first miracle there. He turned water into wine there. He saved the reception from becoming a total disaster there. And he caused an argument between the guests and the host over why this new-and-improved wine had been held back until the party was nearly over.

But this story is tricky. It’s not about weddings. It’s not about receptions. It’s not about anybody’s personal preference for Mondavi over Manischevitz. Instead, it’s a cryptic story about a theological paradigm shift. How’s that for a fifty-dollar phrase? It’s a story about Jesus being the new wine….whose time is coming. And it’s a story about Judaism representing the old wine….whose time has been.

But if we scan the pages of scripture, we can glean a few interesting tidbits about weddings in biblical times. From the Book of Tobit (7:14), we learn of the existence of a wedding contract….meaning that “prenuptials” aren’t necessarily all that new. From the Song of Songs, we learn of a special bridal garment, including the existence of adornment. From Genesis 24:35, we learn that the bride, even then, was probably veiled. From Judges 14:11, we learn that the groom most likely had attendants, including a best man. From Matthew 9:15, Mark 2:19 and Luke 5:34, we learn that it was traditional to invite a number of wedding guests.

Jeremiah 7:34 suggests a procession accompanied by music (meaning that Doris Hall worked Saturdays, even then). The Book of Ruth hints of a skirt-spreading ceremony, whatever that was. Deuteronomy 22:13-21 raises the possibility of a virginity check prior to the ceremony. Alas, it appears that this was required only of the bride. And various references in Tobit (located in the Apocrypha) and Judges….along with the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins in Matthew 25….give evidence that wedding festivities may have lasted a minimum of seven days, all the way up to a maximum of fourteen. But of particular interest to me this morning is the passage I just read from the second chapter of Genesis, the one that concludes: “This, at last, is bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh. Called woman, she is born of man. And a man shall leave his mother and cleave to his wife, and the two shall become as one flesh.” This image of “one flesh” is perhaps the most ancient matrimonial symbol. And its appearance at the conclusion of a Genesis creation story suggests that marriage was deemed to be part of the natural….and intended…. order of creation.

On the average Saturday, does everybody understand that? I doubt it. Secularity is ripe on the planet. And it is especially virulent among those of marrying age. Years ago, most weddings took place in church and were followed by a simple reception in fellowship hall, hosted by the ladies of the church. No beer. No band. But even the poorest little church had a silver tea set. Which meant that there was tea….lemon wedges….sugar cubes….round mints….bowls of mixed nuts (from which I always tried to extract the few visible pecans)….individualized squares of vanilla ice cream (paper wrapped) with little pink colored hearts frozen inside….and cake. Of course, cake. Which was sometimes upgraded to include those ridiculously expensive little tea sandwiches (which men positively abhor as they talk in groups about whose idea it was to veto the serving of “real food”).

Do we see such receptions anymore? Not much. In part, because even if the bride and groom wanted it, most churches wouldn’t have anybody left who would remember how to do it….or would volunteer for it. Meaning that it’s not just today’s kids who are different.

Today, people get married in all kinds of places….especially in California. Twice in the last two years, I have flown to the coast to officiate in a California wedding. Once at a golf resort. The other time at a winery. I’m here to tell you that “winery weddings” are a big deal in the West.

Do I go outside of the church to do weddings? Sure! Do I do so often? Not really. Do I water down what I do….when I don’t “do church?” No. Because I have this weird habit….implanted at ordination….of carrying “church” in me, whether I am surrounded by stained glass or green grass. Weddings, you see, may be set in the context of the sacred or the secular. But marriage, to me….even though I am light years removed from Roman Catholicism….hints at (and maybe even smacks of) a sacrament. When I do a wedding, the understanding I bring to it is that God is in it….and that Christ comes to it. Meaning that from day-one of the planning to moment-last of the benediction, I try to lift everyone six or seven feet above a morbidly obsessive preoccupation with questions concerning nut cups or no nut cups

If I am successful, I will leave you with a clear (albeit unspoken) message….whether you are the bride, the groom, or the mothers of the bride and groom….that this is not (just) about you. This is about some strange and exotic mystery that Paul twice referred to as “Christ and the church.” Which suggests a certain manner of “living with”….along with a certain openness to “dying for.” How in the world did Christ love the church? Well, lots of words come to mind. But “sacrificially” is the one that sticks.

I doubt most couples know this. But I think many couples sense this. Their language gives them away. When they talk (repeatedly) about this being a “big day,” they are not just talking about the clothes they are wearing….the guests they are greeting….the money they are spending….but about the awesomeness of what they are undertaking (and the fact that if all they bring to it is what “they” bring to it, they will probably fail). Not that they’ll ever admit it. But they fear it. Let me tell you, they fear it.

And so a wedding becomes a moment….a personal and professional moment….to see what I can bring to it. Or, better yet, to see who I can bring to it. Which is why I don’t lose a lot of sleep over whether those I marry are members (or even attenders). Because a wedding is one of those moments in which everybody is incredibly vulnerable, don’t you see. And vulnerability is the one thing that throws open more windows to the fresh air of the gospel, than anything else I know.

Do I come across heavy handedly? Of course not. But do I blow weddings off lightly? Of course not. Here at First Church, we even instituted a “Preparation for Marriage Seminar” (of four weeks duration) as one component of our agreement with the couples we marry. Does premarital work, work? Gosh, I hope so. Does it ever stop people from going ahead with the wedding? Once in a blue moon….maybe.

Let’s get real. By the time most people see me, things are pretty much on cruise control. Which means they are going ahead. So it’s relatively ridiculous for me (from my position) to render judgments like:

            Insider….outsider,

            Ours….not ours,

            Fit….unfit,

            Sure thing….certain disaster.

My job is to take what comes, asking: “Tell me why it’s important to you to be married in a church.” Then, without prejudging the answer (sufficient reason….insufficient reason), I work with whoever God brings me.

Do weddings beget church members? Sometimes. Is that a good reason to perform them? Not particularly. Why do it, then? Because human love is as close as a lot of people are ever going to get to seeing the Spirit of God in action. Moreover, if we expect commitments to last (as Jesus said they should), we who believe them to be sacred ought to do our level best to be present when people make them.

Quite frankly, if I have one complaint about church weddings involving non-church people, it has more to do with the guests in the pews than the participants at the altar. I recognize that strangeness explains rudeness. But it shouldn’t excuse it. And the part of me that is becoming old and crotchety sometimes wishes I could say to the people in the pews:

Sit down. Shut up. Keep your cameras in your purse. Keep your opinions to yourself. If you must bring a two year old, be sensitive to the fact that not everyone may think his actions quite as cute as you do. And if you are a female guest who is young and shapely, don’t show so much skin so as to upstage the bride.

Even then, it’s amazing how often a well-officiated ceremony can turn a rag-tag audience into a worshiping congregation, without anybody being aware that such a transformation is actually taking place.

Sometimes, when I launch into the Call to Worship at a wedding, I find myself thinking: “Let’s see if I can get them.” But, once I’ve “got them,” what do I want them to see? I want them to see that God wouldn’t give two people this awesome, aching hunger for another human being, if God didn’t believe it was a hunger capable of being satisfied. I want them to see that God wouldn’t design something into the nature and fabric of creation….namely, this “one flesh” ideal….unless God believed that people could really make it work. And I want them to see that the Bible wouldn’t (time and again) equate the Kingdom of God with a giant wedding reception, unless weddings and the parties that follow them are pretty close to God’s heart. Then, if God is even one part Slovenian, I trust there will be an occasional polka at the reception.

Note: The four paragraphs of “biblical material” concerning wedding traditions were taken from a sermon I wrote in 1997 entitled “Five Minutes Before a Wedding.”

A few days after delivering this sermon, Aileen Erdmann handed me a clipping from the August 2 issue of the Livingston Enterprise (Livingston, Montana). It described, in some detail, the outdoor wedding ceremony for Heather Nack and Bob Culbreth. The bride and groom wore handmade clothes and leggings of buckskin, which they had scraped, tanned and prepared themselves. Instead of a veil, the bride wore a flower garland on her head and carried a bouquet of white and purple lilacs. The groom’s best man was his black lab, Roswell. Instead of exchanging rings, both the bride and groom had clasped-hand rings tattooed on their ring fingers. For their honeymoon, Heather and Bob spent five days and nights canoeing the 110-mile wild and scenic section of the Missouri River. Given that they are both 1999 graduates of the University of Montana School of Forestry, the style and structure of the wedding may have been well-fitting and comfortably appropriate.

Message In a Bottle

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church

Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 15

What an exciting new venture this is. I can’t help but be thrilled with the number of people who have gathered. For some of you, this is your first time in this church. For others, this is your second or third service of the day. As for me, it’s my fourth. But who’s counting? Besides, what a day it has been.

Looking around the sanctuary, I don’t see many of you who were here at 8:15 this morning. Which means that you missed Russ Ives’ wonderful solo. Russ sang “If With All Your Hearts, Ye Truly Seek Me” from Mendelssohn’s Elijah. And Russ has seldom sounded better. But he had a great song to start with. Rumor has it that Karl Barth once identified Mozart as the person he most hoped to see in heaven. But I trust that in some corner of the life that is to come, God has made some room for Mendelssohn.

If you go down Woodward Avenue to Metropolitan United Methodist Church, you will see the words Russ sang stenciled high above the altar. The only problem is, the letters all run together. No spacing separates them.

IfwithallyourheartsyetrulyseekmeyeshalleversurelyfindmethussaithyourGod.

I am not sure why it was done that way. But, sooner or later, most people catch on.

The idea behind the text is that, at some time or another, most of us will go looking for God. Not that we will do it continuously….or devotedly. But, at some point in time, the quest will capture and consume us. It will take some to mountaintops and others to monasteries. Still others of us will go to places where human need is raw, the better that we might find God in the faces of our hurting neighbors.

But I want to suggest something of a counter movement….that God goes looking, too. Moments ago I read a trio of texts. All of them describe a seeking God. In the first text, Adam is hiding from God in the garden. Leading God to ask: “Where are you?” Unless I am mistaken, it is the first question God poses in the Bible. He wants to know where Adam is.

The second text quotes the psalmist:

            Where can I go from your spirit?

            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 dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,

            Even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me.

Imagine that. Wherever we go, God will find us. Making our bed in Sheol is a “death image.” So is “taking the wings of the morning and dwelling in the uttermost parts of the sea.” What is the psalmist saying? He is suggesting that even if we die, God will hunt us down.

Then I read a couple of stories from Luke 15. I could have read them all, but a little taste is enough. A shepherd loses a sheep and goes looking for it. A lady loses a coin and does the same. And, in a story I didn’t read, a boy leaves home and heads for parts unknown. But his father never turns off the porch light, even as we picture him standing in the doorway scanning the horizon for a familiar face.

The connecting thread seems to be obvious. Things get lost. People get lost. And God organizes a search party. Even when we are indifferent….or downright hostile….to discovery.

Hiding is sometimes deliberate. We wander off intentionally. I don’t know if kids play Hide and Seek anymore, but I played it every night. Somebody was chosen to be “it.” He then buried his face in the big maple tree and counted to a hundred by fives. Then he cried: “Here I come, ready or not.” And we were always ready. Meaning that we were well hidden.

I don’t remember all the variations of the game that followed. Either he found us, or we somehow “got in free.” But I once got to thinking: “What if I hide so well that people stop looking?” What if I am still hiding when everybody else quits and goes home? Or quits to play baseball? Or starts a new game without me? I picture myself wondering: “Aren’t you going to look anymore?” Leading me to ponder the possibility that human beings crave discovery.

But hiding is sometimes inadvertent. We don’t plan to hide. We just wander off. Still, God looks for us, even when we are unaware that we have wandered.

John Wesley called this “prevenient grace.” In theological terminology, it means: “What God does for me, prior to my awareness.” Let me illustrate. Picture taking your kid to the state fair…. to a giant amusement park….or to a shopping mall. All of a sudden, you become aware of the fact that your kid is no longer by your side, but has wandered off. At first, you do a quiet little search. You go up one aisle….down another. But when your ever-widening circles fail to lead to discovery, you panic. Your search becomes sweaty and emotional. You make inquiries. You enlist allies. You have them page your kid over the loud speaker.

Eventually, you are successful. You hug your kid. Then you scold your kid. But your kid gives you the dumbest look in the world, followed by the question: “What’s all the fuss about?” Your kid didn’t even know he was lost. But there’s nothing unusual about that. Most of us don’t.

But the Bible seems to suggest that whether our hiding be deliberate or inadvertent, God is a relentless seeker (“Here I come, ready or not”). God will stop at nothing till we are found.

* * * * *

Picture, if you will, an island. The island is relatively large, but not so large so as to be inaccessible to all who dwell there. Meaning that everybody on the island has the possibility of knowing everybody else on the island. Not everybody does, of course. But everybody could.

The island, itself, is both balmy and breezy. Some describe it as “pleasant.” Others hold out for the word “idyllic.”

Stories suggest that people first came to the island following a series of shipwrecks. But, if true, they happened a long time ago. Nobody remembers (or talks about) them very much.

Life on the island is both predictable and comfortable. Early settlers took pains to civilize things. And classify things. Meaning that all the birds were named….as were the fish and animals. Trees, too. A system of transmitting information was established so that young minds could be trained. Thus, the island had education. When disputes arose (as will happen from time to time), a process was devised so that they might be resolved. Hence, the island had adjudication. And there was a “fun side” to life on the island, as evidenced by parties, parades and even an occasional holiday. Meaning that the island knew celebration. All told, a pretty nice place to live.

One day, while walking the beach, a man spotted a bottle. Uncorking it, he removed a piece of paper on which he found the words “Help is coming.” Not quite understanding what he had read, he said nothing to anybody and threw the bottle back into the sea.

Another day, while walking the same beach, the same man spotted a second bottle. This time the message read: “Help will arrive soon.” Puzzled, he confided in a friend.

Over time, more bottles washed up on the sand. Not all at once. And not every day. But enough, so that others began looking for them. While the messages varied from bottle to bottle, there was a common thread connecting them. Included were these:

            “Help left yesterday.”

            “Help is never far away.”

On the surface, the messages seemed absurd. People on the island didn’t really need help. But, over time, strange things began to happen. As word got around, more people began to gather on the beach. While they didn’t have a word to describe what they were feeling, there was a “curiosity” they hadn’t felt before….a curiosity about life beyond the island. They began to wonder what was out there….who was out there….and why “out there” cared about “here.”

All of which led to a collective musing….not about “what we got”….but about “what we ain’t got.” They began to wonder what they were missing. Was there something they needed that they didn’t have? They began to feel less than complete.

Over time, things became ritualized. While people still walked the beach looking for bottles at odd times of the day and night, others began to gather on a weekly basis. Some in the morning. Some at night. Upon gathering to look for new messages, they found it comforting to reread the old ones. All of which led to a camaraderie (of sorts) that was deeper than any they had previously experienced. Meaning that they began to support each other….look after each other….mutually encourage each other.

They began to feel good about the fact that the world was larger than they had imagined it to be. And the place where they lived began to feel less and less like an “I land.”

Some, of course, didn’t have any of these feelings. They paid little attention to the messages. Instead, they satisfied themselves by studying every detail of the bottles that brought them.

* * * * *

My friends, Russ is right. Seekers abound. Most mornings (and some evenings) on the “I land,” there are people who gather on the beach to look for bottles, read messages and encourage each other. Fortunately, bottle sightings are still frequent. And messages aren’t really that hard to find. In fact, one washed up yesterday. Unrolling it….and reading it….it had the feel of a lyric:

            You’ll never know just how much I love you.          

            You’ll never know just how much I care.

            And if I tried, I still couldn’t hide my love for you.

            You ought to know, for haven’t I told you so,

                        A million or more times….

Note:  This message was delivered at our first-ever “Sunday Night Alive” service. This represents a new venture for First Church and offers a fourth worship option each Sunday, featuring a more “contemporary” format.

“Sunday Night Alive” sermons may differ somewhat in style from those preached on Sunday morning. They are delivered from notes rather than a manuscript….and from a platform rather than a pulpit. Over time, a comfortable pattern will surely emerge.

For my story about the island, I am indebted to a wonderful book by Eugene Peterson entitled Working the Angles: The Shape of Pastoral Integrity.