Enjoy the Ride 11/10/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: 1 John 1:1-4

Note: This is the third and final sermon of a stewardship campaign built upon Paul’s word in I Thessalonians 5:19: “Hold fast to what is good.” The campaign theme is “Don’t Let Go.” As is the custom at First Church, the campaign is visually and creatively imaged throughout the building….this time by a series of ropes. Some of the ropes are coiled and hung from various pillars, while others are stretched taut, crossing the sanctuary in decorative array from balcony to pulpit. 

* * * * *

“So what’s with the ropes?” That’s what he wanted to know a week ago Saturday night when, as a visitor from another church, he attended the Composer Festival concert in our sanctuary. And he wasn’t alone. There were a lot of outsiders here that evening and, to a person, they were intrigued by the ropes. Several concluded that the ropes were liturgical and tried to make a connection between the configuration of the colors and the seasons of the church year. One fellow literally bubbled over with excitement, claiming that he had “figured it out” by counting 13 ropes descending from the corner of the balcony to the crown of the pulpit. “I know what that means,” he said. “It means Jesus and the 12 disciples.” While a few, knowing our church’s reputation for creativity and artistic design, knew that there had to be a connection between the ropes they were viewing and the pledges we are seeking, but they didn’t know what it was. And then there was one man from a small, struggling church who said (in tones literally dripping with depression): “I just wish our little church could raise what these ropes cost.”

When it became clear that we were going to feature ropes this year, I was of two minds. On one hand, I liked the initial word associations that accompanied “ropes”….words like “rugged,” “strong,” “durable” and “outdoorsy,” coupled with visual images like tugging and climbing, tying and connecting. Picturing ropes, I could see tents standing tall, sheets drying on a sunny day, water skiers crisscrossing the wake, and camping gear lashed to the roof of an SUV.

But I also realized that I knew next to nothing about ropes. I probably own one, but I can’t tell you where it is. And upon finding it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you much about using it. As a kid, it was my job to string the clothesline for my mother. But we have a dryer now. I last water skied at age 50 (brilliantly, I might add), whereupon I retired from it, having proved to my daughter I could still do it. As a Scouter, I passed on the merit badge for knots. And to this day (except for Sunday mornings, funerals and weddings, when Kris tells me I need to look the part), I don’t wear tie shoes, much preferring loafers instead. What’s more, as rope sports go, I’m not into lashing, lassoing, sailing, rappelling, or even tug-of-warring. So I said to myself: “This should be interesting.”

Actually, let me dispel several myths quickly. First, any liturgical connections are purely accidental. Nobody thought of “Jesus and the 12 disciples” when hanging the 13 ropes. Nor did anybody check the ropes’ colors against the church’s seasons. And as for costs, there weren’t many. People have said: “Can we have the ropes when you’re done with them?” Some of you have even offered to buy them. Be my guest. Just don’t do anything serious (or dangerous) with them. They are less than meets the eye. We didn’t get them from an outdoor outfitter’s store. We got them from Home Depot. Cheap. Meaning, don’t entrust your life to them. They may not hold.

They are symbols. They don’t represent anything. Much of their meaning is in what you bring to them, or the associations you make with them.

Biblically, rope is used to draw carts (Isaiah 5:18)….to haul stones (II Samuel 17:13)….to bind prisoners (Judges 16:11)….and to rig boats (Acts 27:32). Israeli potters made designs by pressing ropes against wet clay. And, of course, ropes were essential to fishnets, meaning that they figured in many stories involving Jesus and the disciples.

To me, ropes suggest ways we tie things down (as in “securing”) and tie things together (as in “connecting”). They also suggest the art of ascending (as in “climbing with ropes”), as well as the art of familiarizing (as in “learning the ropes”).

Nobody is going to go home with a rope today. Neither is anyone going to get one in the mail tomorrow. But you are going to get a caribiner (the name of which I could neither recognize nor spell two months ago). Caribiners and ropes go together. I am told that everybody under 40 knows that, but that very few over 40 know that.

Look closely. This is a caribiner. So is this. And this. And this. They make great key chains. But that’s not what they’re made for. Consider them all-purpose connectors. They connect gear to gear….or gear to you….or you to rope….or you to almost anything. They come in shapes known as “oval,” “pear,” “bentgate,” and “straightgate” (the gate being the part of the caribiner that opens). This one lights up in the dark and tells you what time it is (I kid you not). While this one has a miniature boombox inside, complete with a two-position volume switch and a micro-music clip that plays the songs of ’N Sync. Every kid in the church is going to want this one when I’m done. Suffice it to say, if there is something you want to hold on to, you need a caribiner (which isn’t in the Bible)….or a healthy dosage of faith (which is).

“Interesting,” say some of you. “Who cares?” say others of you. Well, let me resort to all of this paraphernalia to make a couple of very simple points. The first is about connecting. The second, about joy riding. Start with “connecting.”

If you haven’t gotten clear about “connecting,” you have either slept in or slept during the last two Sundays. “Don’t let go,” says the theme. “Hold fast to that which is good,” says the Bible. “Hold on to dear life” (not for dear life, but to it), said yours truly in a sermon two Sundays ago. “Carry the treasure” (albeit in fragile and fallible hands), said yours truly last Sunday. “Blest be the tie that binds,” we shall sing (momentarily) this Sunday. Could it be any clearer….this business about connection, I mean?

We are not meant to be disconnected. And to whatever degree we are, we can’t live that way. In one of Jesus’ more graphic analogies, he compared himself to a vine and us to the branches. Which he followed by saying (in effect): “You know what happens when vines and branches get separated, don’t you? I’ll tell you what happens. No fruit. No raisins. No grape jelly. No grape jam. No grape juice. No wine for the table. No wine for the soul, either. None of the above. Disconnected.”

I got an e-mail from Betty Breedlove the other day. The Breedloves are down in Brazil where Dave is fiddling with Ford trucks and Betty is, at the moment, grieving the loss of her mom (who was laid to rest just a few weeks ago….concerning which, she writes):

I am doing well. But I still catch myself a bit misty-eyed when I talk about Mother. The Brazilians have a word for this feeling….“saudade.” I read that the word means a yearning or longing for someone (or something) who isn’t with you….the aching feeling you have when you miss a lover, a friend, your family, or a place. The Portuguese language is full of words to express feelings, and this feeling is very strongly felt by Brazilians. When spoken, the word “saudade” conveys far more feeling than when we say “missing you” in English.

I have “saudades” for my mother, my dad, Cortney and Brian, my many friends, and my church. The other day, I clicked on the church website. I think God made me do it. As you know, I don’t do it often because it makes me cry. Anyway, I read your letter in Steeple Notes with many tears because there is another side to the question of finding churches. What if there is no choice? Here in Salvador, Janet McGuinness and I searched for a couple of months for a church with a service in English, but there was none….zero….zip….in a city of two million. We did try a couple of services in Portuguese but, when you don’t know much of the language, it’s not the same. At least the Catholic church had most of the service written out in its bulletin. We felt so blessed when we met John Shepherd and he agreed to offer a service in English, if only twice a month. By the way, we have added two more families and now boast 20 lusty voices singing from the Methodist hymnals you sent down.

I doubt if many churches in the world can compare with FUMC. First Church offers so much in programming and services (along with a great building in which to house them). But, most of all, it offers wonderful people….truly a church family to grow and share with, ensuring that one will not be alone. Like losing a mother, I don’t think anyone understands the “saudades” until she is gone. For me, it is the same with First Church. I wish you and the church much success in this year’s EMC campaign. When people read your words “give yourself fully to this church while you have it,” I hope they take them to heart. As I said, what if the day comes when there is no choice?

Well, if that doesn’t move you, I don’t know what will. So when you receive your caribiner, think Betty in Brazil….think vines and branches….think Jesus and the church. In short, think “connection.”

And when you think about the ropes, think “joy riding.” I know I am pushing you here. You have already thought “tugging and tying, climbing and rappelling, skiing and sailing.” Now I want you to lift your sights. I mean, I really want you to lift your sights. Like into the trees. Three weeks ago, Damian Zikakis….our resident tenor, Finance Committee leader, youth counselor, Wednesday morning study group attender, and all-around good guy….wrote to us about recreational tree climbing. He told us about ropes, harnesses, helmets, caribiners, and an 80-foot elm tree in his back yard. Today, Damian can scale the tree.…swing through the tree….sleep in the tree….even hang upside down from the tree. Next, he’ll want to take Patti, Alex and Sam to Judson Collins Methodist Camp where they have a ropes course. Today, every camp has a ropes course. You can’t run a successful camp without a ropes course. Ask your kids. They’ll tell you. Where, with good leadership….good training….good equipment….and good group support, you can both scale trees and swing from tree to tree. But it gets even better. If the ropes course has a zip line, you can ride it (from high in the tree) clean over a pond….a river….even a small lake. It’s not everybody’s thing. But it can be a wonderful thing.

And if, as Damian suggests, this is somehow a paradigm for the journey of discipleship, it suggests that your spiritual journey ought to provide experiences like this. You are meant to climb….meant to soar….meant to see glimpses of forever….and meant to relish the ride. Sometimes I fear that I spend so much time telling you how demanding the Christian life is, that I forget to tell you how rewarding the Christian life is. To whatever degree I have left that confusion in anyone’s mind, I am profoundly sorry. As the author of 1 John testifies: “We have this fellowship with the Father and the Son, Jesus Christ. And we want you to have it, too. Not because misery loves company. But so that our joy might be complete.”

* * * * *

Well, that’s my sermon and I’m sticking to it. Except for this, by way of addition….the only connection being the word “ride.” It concerns a little girl and her mother who, for years, made a weekly trip to Meijers Thrifty Acres for groceries. Each time they made the trip, the daughter’s good behavior was rewarded with a ride on the mechanical pony named Sandy. Lots of you know Sandy. And each time the mother gave the daughter two coins, even though she took but one ride. After the ride was over, the mother lifted her off the pony and the child carefully placed the second coin on top of the coin box. Then she said a sweet “goodbye” to the pony, stroked his plaster mane, and cheerfully walked away.

One day an elderly woman sitting on a bench stopped the girl and said: “Child, you’ve left your money there.” “I know,” said the little girl. “I always leave some there. It’s for the people who don’t have any money for the ride.” Bewildered, the woman asked: “But how do you know the money will go to someone who really needs it?” Not at all discouraged by the woman’s question, she replied: “I just do.”

But really, does it matter who gets the leftover money? I think not. Why not? Because I know that little girl. And I am here to tell you that she is turning into a truly beautiful human being. Funny, isn’t it, how generosity can do that to a person?

Dust and Ashes 2/13/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Genesis 3:17-19

During the mid-sixties, when I was just starting out, the “in group” (musically speaking) was a folk duo out of Nashville who traveled the country under the name Dust and Ashes. They were good. And they were Methodist. Now, some forty years later, I don’t know if they’re still singing, still recording, or still traveling under that name. But if any day is a “dust and ashes” day, this day is a “dust and ashes” day.

We are formed from dust, says the Good Book, and we shall return to dust, once our time on earth is done. I learned that as a child. As did most of you. As to what I made of it then, I can’t rightly recall. But all of us have heard of the child who came downstairs and asked his mother whether he could believe everything he heard in Sunday school. When she asked for specifics, he told her about the “from dust we came, and to dust we shall return” claim. Leading her to answer: “Well, son, if you heard it in Sunday school, it’s got to be true.” Whereupon he responded (with no small manner of urgency): “Then you’d better come upstairs quickly. Because, from what I can tell, someone is either coming or going under my bed.”

Infantile humor aside, life is not only mortal but fragile. Last night, Kris and I pulled into our driveway about 10:30 following a five-day trip to Salt Lake City. We attended the Winter Olympics….an event alive with athleticism (with young life straining against past and present limits to skate smoother, jump higher or ski faster). As is her custom, Kris went straight to the answering machine. And after four calls from aluminum siding salesmen, we learned of a young man, age 34, who decided to end his life at the end of a rope….effectively setting his own limits.

Some choose death. Death chooses others. Sixty-five percent of the people I say a few well-chosen words over (at the close of their days) have already chosen cremation. And a growing percentage of those I inhume in the garden in front of the church. I do it all for them. I dig the hole for them. I say the prayer over them. I open the box that contains them (prying loose the hard plastic lid with the business-end of a letter opener). And then I let go of them, allowing the collective dust of their earthly life to pour from my hands into the cavity waiting to receive them. So much for the body.

And our achievements, while having a slightly longer shelf life, eventually follow suit. Four weeks ago on a Saturday, the woman I live with asked how my sermon was coming. She was not so much concerned with its quality as with its completion. In short, was I finished? And if not, would I be willing to take a break from writing? In the interest of marital harmony, I said: “Sure, why not?” So we went to an antique store in St. Clair Shores….one she’d read about earlier that morning and wanted to visit. Once there, we began our respective wanderings….mine bringing me to a rather large shelf containing no small number of Oscar-like statuettes. Each had a pedestal. And each had some printing on the pedestal. Always a name….followed by an accomplishment. One spoke of excellence in bowling. Another, excellence in golf. A third, excellence in public speaking. Still another, excellence in community volunteering. On each statuette there was a little orange dot. Each dot contained numbers. Twenty-five cents. Thirty-five cents. For the bigger statuettes, half a dollar. Never more. Strangely, I found myself wandering through the rest of the store humming a beloved old hymn.

            So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross

            Till my trophies at last I lay down.

Bodies to dust. Achievements to dust. So, too, our enjoyments….equally dust-bound. I’ve heard half a hundred jokes about whether there are golf courses in heaven. The best of them concerns a message sent back from the “other side,” complete with good news and bad. The good news is that heaven’s links are lavish beyond belief. The bad news is that the hearer has a tee time the following Tuesday.

As to whether any of that is true, I haven’t a clue. But I can take you to another antique store (when you’re married to my wife, you learn the landscape)….this one in Naples, Florida. Where I can show you an entire room filled with golf clubs….nearly-new golf clubs….in nearly-new golf bags. The clubs were purchased by people who retired and moved to Naples, believing that they would now have “world enough and time” to play. Except they didn’t. Sobering, isn’t it? Humbling, too.

Still, there is this. It is into dust that God first breathed….and continues so to do. And it is dust that once, for thirty years and change, even housed the eternal. And it was in dust that Jesus silently wrote with his finger, while an adulterous woman’s accusers walked away (one at a time), quietly dropping the stones they had intended to throw at her. As to what Jesus wrote in the dust, who can say? But if you ask, that woman will tell you what it felt like to have her life handed back to her. It felt, for all the world, like mercy.

Ah yes, we may be dust and ashes. But this earthly stuff (this “stuff” that constitutes our nature) is infused with the divine and shot through with the holy. Meaning that, unlike the dust with which we deal, this dust…our dust….is never discardable, but is infinitely renewable, redeemable and (at the end of the day) resurrectable.

Ben Jones is the middle child of Greg and Susan Jones. One night, at the age of nine, he was waiting in bed for the story and tuck-in routine that was a ritual in that house. But when the reading was done….and when the tucking was done….he didn’t wait passively for his mother’s kissing to be done. Instead, he said: “Let me kiss you tonight.”

But he did not kiss her once. And he did not kiss her twice. He kissed her seven times….on the forehead. Three across. Four down. Puzzled, she received it. But didn’t “get” it. Until later, while talking to her husband (who, after all, is the dean of a divinity school) she realized that Ben’s kisses were offered in the form of a cross.

Where had her nine year old come up with that? As best as she could figure, it had to do with an Ash Wednesday service the family attended, which featured a cross of ashes marked on the forehead of each worshiper present. On the surface, it seemed as if Ben had the symbolism all screwed up.

            Ashes? Kisses?

            Ashes? Kisses?

            Ashes? Kisses?

But isn’t the message of the hour….the message of the season….the message most of us need desperately to hear….that we are as kissable as we are fallible?

But what does a nine year old know?

Plenty, it would seem.

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!