Two Cheers For Christmas Craziness 12/19/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 1:1-5,10-16

One of the charges made against religious people concerns the fact that they do not always practice what they preach. This is probably said about Christians more often than other religious people, not because Christians practice the faith with standards that are so abysmally low, but because Christians preach the faith with standards that are so abnormally high. So let's be honest. Why deny the indictment. We should put more effort into practicing what we preach. And we don't. This much needs to be said frequently and in the posture of honest confession.

But there is something else that needs to be said. And I have appointed myself to say it this morning. Sometimes we Christians need to preach what we practice. You heard me correctly. We ought to preach what we practice. For there are times when what we do with our lives speaks a more eloquent and interesting word than what we preach with our lips.

Consider Christmas preaching. What is the most commonly preached Christmas theme which regularly resonates across the land? It is nothing less than the injunction to "keep Christ in Christmas." It is frequently suggested that in our frenzied and frantic attempts to fill the holiday with good things, we have somehow forgotten Jesus. I really believe that if I had a quarter for every sermonic suggestion that the real meaning of Christmas has been perverted, forgotten, lost, stolen, sentimentalized, secularized, or otherwise misappropriated, I would be wealthy enough to retire. Somehow, goes the argument, there lies a babe in a manger who is buried beneath an avalanche of presents, lost in a forest of cards, surrounded by a swarm of party-goers, and floating on a rising tide of egg nog.... a child whose cries cannot be heard over the din of twelve drummers drumming and eleven cash registers ringing (fueled by the promise of a pre-Christmas, 30% off sale on five gold rings).

Let us conclude that much of this is true. Let us further admit that there are some extremely crude and very un-Christ-like excesses of celebrating the season. High on my list of offenders are the video game makers who figure that the birthday of the Prince of Peace is a wonderful reason to create an insatiable demand for electronic simulations of brutal murders and domestic violence. A good friend of mine, trying to be a "with it" grandmother, received (over the telephone) the Christmas wish list of her 9 year old grandson. She then purchased the video game that was on the top of his list, only to find it highlighted (on the 11:00 news) as being the most violent of this year's offerings. So she played it for her own edification, and then returned it for a gift more grandmotherly in nature. Which is probably why that same grandson will be receiving underwear and socks this Christmas morning.

And who can absolve the publishers of the monthly skin magazines, who strategically drape a garland of greenery over the shoulders of an otherwise-unclad young lady, put her picture on the cover, double the number of pages, double the price it takes to buy them, and then have the audacity to call the whole thing "the Christmas issue." And not far behind these folk are the frenzied revelers of December, for whom a Christmas party represents a wonderful opportunity to get both sentimental and sloshed..., two things which happen pretty much simultaneously, as I recall.

Each of you can add to the list of horrors in your own way. I'll not belabor the point. All over America, my clergy colleagues are doing it for me. Clearly, what passes as Christmas sometimes bears little resemblance to the spirit of the One whose birthday it really is. But having said that, I find myself becoming mildly irritated every time I hear someone begin to wax eloquently about "putting Christ back into Christmas."  Kindly indulge me as I explore my irritation publicly.

I begin by wondering what might constitute a "proper" Christmas. Just what is it that we are supposed to do....we who are charged with putting Christ back where He belongs? What would satisfy us? Would there be a noticeable increase in spirituality, were we to eliminate all presents and parties, all cards and carol sings, all office observances and charity appeals? What if we were to minimize the importance of everything seasonal that did not revolve around the church? Would we be any richer for it? What if we were to spend the last three weeks of Advent in spiritual retreat or book air passage to the Holy Land? Would Christ be any nearer or dearer as a result? Possibly.... but certainly not automatically.

My wondering, wandering mind rolls on. Even if we preachers know the proper things to do (the better to keep Christ in Christmas), why don't we do them? I get as many cards from clergy as from anybody else. Preachers, when last I looked, tend to party as much as anybody else. And I know of no study suggesting that clergy buy fewer presents than anybody else. Last Monday evening we had our District Ministers Christmas party, which differed from the average Christmas party only in the fact that nobody had too much to drink (nobody had anything to drink). But we all dressed to the nines, ate more than we really needed, and individually "threw in" on a gift for the boss. And there have been other minister's Christmas parties (in past years) where Santa, himself, put in an appearance.

What's more, if schedules are over-busied at Christmas, it would be my guess that preachers are among the primary culprits in making them so. I look at my own life. I have about as much to complain about as anyone (where seasonal excess is concerned). Yet I have noticed that I am not terribly inclined to give much of it up. Every year I seem to send more cards, even as I wish there were more time to write personal notes within them. And every year I enjoy as many dinners, brunches, open houses, and party-type gatherings as I can make room for, even as I realize that there are others I would love to see, if only additional evenings could be found. Here it is five days before Christmas, and I just bought a tree yesterday. Hopefully I will have time to set it up today (prior to the pageant) and trim it tomorrow. But I lament the fact that there is no time to go out in the woods and cut one down (and no chain saw with which to do the cutting).

Only once, in twenty-five years, have I made it to J. P. McCarthy's carol sing. Only once have I heard the symphony perform the Messiah. And I have yet to see the Nutcracker ballet. But I wish that I could do it all.... and more.

So it all begins to come clear to me. Many of us who preach one kind of Christmas, live quite another kind of Christmas. And maybe....just maybethe time has come to listen to our lives rather than our sermons. Hence, my suggestion that we preach what we practice. In that spirit, then, let me dare to suggest that a worldly Christmas is not only permissible, but may have about it things that are both biblically and personally desirable.

I would begin by urging us to take a more careful look at some of the things we call "worldly." Look at some of the neat things that happen at Christmas time. I see sanctuaries filled with more strangers than at any other time of the year. I see more money being expended by the haves on behalf of the have-nots than in the 11 other months combined. I see men, some of them rather old and feeble, standing on cold street corners selling newspapers.  I see women who darned their last sock twenty-five years ago, sewing dresses for little girls. I see our chapel filled with bags of gifts for the children of prisoners and realize that many of our people must have shopped their hearts out in the past few days. I also see cease fires on battlefields and parties in nursing homes, even as I hear sacred music being performed in secular concert halls and carols from our hymnal being played in our local shopping malls. I see better television programs than are available any other time of the year. I see people going out of their way to be a little kinder, a little more tolerant, and a little less abrasive than normal. I see good service being remembered and rewarded. And I see twinkling lights in people's bushes, nativity scenes in people's yards, and plastic wise men (astride camels) on the front lawns of corporate headquarters.

Push the point even further. For every card that is sent, I see people trying (ever so fleetingly) to reach out and re-connect themselves with others. It is as if they are saying: "Look, we may not see each other as much as I would like, but I want you to know that I remember and treasure the time we once shared together.... and that (even after all these years) it continues to mean much to me now."

For every party and gathering of friends, I see an attempt to acknowledge that this world can often be very lonely, very cold, and very cruel. Therefore, in this season of the year when we celebrate the true center of fellowship which is Christ, why shouldn't we gather with those precious and cherished people of our lives, the better to blow fresh fire upon the coals of the heart.

And for every gift begrudgingly given "because we got one from them last year," I see people spending hours looking for a gift that will say far more than its price tag. In fact, the Santa Claus tradition, itself, comes to us as the result of charitable acts first performed by a Sixth-century Russian cleric, Bishop Nicholas of Myra. It seems that the good bishop combined an impulsive nature and a charitable disposition into a tradition of leaving anonymous gifts on the doorsteps of his most needy parishioners, each Christmas Eve after midnight.

But stretch the point further still. Look at the worldliness of the Christmas story itself. One wonders where the church gets permission to be so territorial about Christmas. Whoever said that Christ was the sole province of the church? Christ belongs to the world. He did not come to save the church. He came to save the world. And I suppose that says something about what constitutes a fitting location for the Jesus story and its retelling.

For several years, during the decade of the eighties, I delivered an annual Christmas message in the basement of a bar. The bar was the Dakota Inn, and its basement was the regular meeting place for the North Woodward Avenue Lions Club. My favorite undertaker had retained his membership in that club from the years in which he had conducted funerals out of Highland Park. Somehow, it fell to him to find someone to give the annual Christmas talk. And I was that "someone." One year, when I was speaking, I could hear a party going on upstairs. There was a piano, to which people were singing with obvious relish. I was mildly annoyed until I recognized the tune. For I was hearing the unmistakable strains of "We Three Kings of Orient Are," which I shall sing with Dick Kopple and Bill Ives this very afternoon.... not in the basement of the Dakota Inn....but in our lovely sanctuary.

And one year, not so long ago, I preached a Christmas sermon in the ladies' shoe department at Crowley’s. The occasion was a gathering of the employees, who had come together at 7:30 in the morning on the heaviest shopping day of the year. And why had I come? Because they asked me to. And once I got used to preaching in a room full of ladies' shoes, it didn't seem the least bit strange. No, it didn't seem the least bit strange at all.

And then there was the Sunday, three years ago, when I joined with a Catholic priest (among others) celebrating an Advent liturgy for some street people....around a bonfire....in an oil drum....on a vacant lot....in the Cass Corridor. But that's such a rich story that I need to save it for another day. All I know is that when I shared a Christmas message last Friday morning at Kirk in the Hills, the setting didn't seem any more appropriate (for all of its elegance) than the basement of the Dakota Inn or a vacant lot in the Cass Corridor.

Put Christ back into Christmas? What I want to know is, how in the world are we going to keep Him out. Part of the secret of this wonderful saga of the stable of Bethlehem rests in the fact that it is so wonderfully worldly in the first place. The Jesuit priest, Andrew Greeley (whose ability to understand the power of a good story is probably enhanced by his ability to write one), pens these words:

The secret of the story is this. Who could have thought that the image of a man, a woman, and a child in a cave, with animals and shepherds hovering in the background, could have possibly possessed any religious significance whatsoever?

The story survives, not because of its inherent religiosity, but because it is so incredibly ordinary.... and therefore, universal.... that its message of hope and love cannot help but be understood, whether or not one comes to it with a mind previously schooled in the things of faith.

It is a worldly story to which the world responds in a worldly way. And if the world's response to the story be slightly extravagant, can anything (Greeley asks) be more extravagant than the love which God spilled upon the world in Jesus? We had always suspected that God might be good, and that God might even love us. But the surprise of the gospel (in its day, and ours) was that nobody could comprehend the fact that God could love us this much. Edmund Steimle, the beloved Lutheran from New York, suggests the very same thing, when he writes:

The only way to respond to such divine extravagance is to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, buy an electric train for your first-born, three-month-old, boy-child, and more perfume than you can possibly afford for your wife.... even as you spread flowering pot-plants all over the sanctuary, put up trees in outlandish places, and fill the streets with music.

If that sounds a little bit crazy, I suppose it is. But maybe we need to rethink the definition of the word "crazy." One afternoon, a very disturbed ward of patients in the state mental hospital was startled by a loud noise. Rushing to the windows, the patients saw that a middle-aged man, while driving on the street below, had suffered a blow out. Collectively, the patients began to laugh at him, combining ridicule with gibberish. The driver became visibly nervous. In his anxiety to replace the blown-out tire with the spare, he accidentally kicked the hubcap into which he had placed the wheel nuts. They all went rolling down the drain in the pavement. In great consternation, the man stood up, cursed twice and threw his arms heavenward in despair. The gibberish stopped. At which point the most violent patient on the ward (who had scarcely uttered an intelligent word in months) shouted: 'Take one nut from each of the other three wheels, put them on the spare, and drive carefully to the nearest gas station." The driver looked startled.... and then followed the suggestion. But before driving away, he waved his thanks in the general direction of the anonymous word of advice. Whereupon the violent man shouted: "Just because we're crazy, doesn't mean we're stupid."

My friends, it is my suspicion that in this crazy, frantic, frenetic celebration we call Christmas, we are far from stupid. We know what it means and where it's at. We know what Christ means and where He's at. He is for us. He is among us. And that is a rather crazy and amazing thing in itself.

"Let's have a sensible Christmas," the lady said to me. To which I said: "My God, lady, why in the world would you want to do that?"

A Cello for Jesus 12/24/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Four Sundays spent. Four candies lit. Four calling birds nested in one never-to-be-forgotten pear tree. And now.... at last.... it all comes down to this.

There is a kind of hush all over the world tonight. Things are quiet now. Almost all of the stores are closed, and almost all of the churches are open.... which should count for something. Nothing much that is newsworthy will happen tonight. Very few guns will be fired. Very few political decisions will be made. No one will hold a press conference, or hold up a party store (one hopes). Neither will anyone fire a puck, kick a pigskin, or shoot a basketball in anger.  It will be a night to deeply cherish those you are with, and dearly miss those you are not with. For Christmas Eve is one of those rare and precious times when the giant spinning wheel of the world stops on "Love," and stays there.  All this, because God once brought something quite unexpected.... and more than a little bit surprising.... to a people who were expecting anything but.

And nobody understands the incongruity of that appearance better than the people of one particular neighborhood in Sarajevo, that war-devastated city in the midst of the nation we used to call Yugoslavia. Strange things have happened there, too. But none so strange as the appearance of the man they call "The Cellist."  But before I tell you anymore about him, let me retreat a step or two, the better to set a proper stage for his story.

Sarajevo, you know. Not because it is a part of the nation that once sent "your people" to America.... although it sent mine. Not because it gave the world a brilliant, and extremely photogenic, Winter Olympics....which, not all that many years ago, it did. And not because you have ever traveled there, skied there, or climbed the beautiful mountains there....  because, as places to go, it's hardly ever been on the beaten track.

Instead, you know Sarajevo because they are fighting a war there... .as wars used to be fought.... hand to hand....house to house....street to street....in the most brutal manner imaginable. In fact, the carnage is so unspeakable that Sarajevo is in the process of writing for the world an entirely new primer on violence. The conflict in Sarajevo is called a "civil war".... an oxymoron, if ever there was one. The conflict is also called "a religious and ethnic war." But the lines become increasingly blurred. At one time or another, everyone in the city becomesthe enemy of someone else in the city. Men…. women.... children.... babies.... grandparents.... young and old.... strong and weak.... Muslim and Christian....Serb, Croat, and Bosnian.... none are exempt. And none are safe. Some kill. Some die. And there are probably others who wish they could die. This is Sarajevo.

Enter, one Vedran Smallovic. See him dressed in formal evening clothes.... sitting in a cafe chair.... in the middle of a street... directly in front of a bakery. Weeks earlier, in front of that same bakery, a mortar barrage landed in the middle of a bread line, killing twenty two hungry people. That's where Vedran Smallovic sits. But it is not enough to simply look at him. You need to hear him. For he is playing a cello in the middle of the street Which he does for twenty two days, braving sniper and artillery fire to play Albinoni's profoundly moving "Adagio In G Minor."

Since he is a member of the Sarajevo Opera Orchestra, he probably knows that this particular "Adagio" was reconstructed from a manuscript fragment found in the ruins of Dresden after World War II. The music somehow survived the firebombing, then. One can only hope that it will survive the firebombing now.

In time, the street corner where Vedran Smailovic plays becomes something of a local shrine. People go out of their way to pass by there.... take friends there.... kiss lovers there. Some lay flowers where his chair and cello once stood. I suppose that flowers and music have always been ways of expressing those hopes which never die.

And then his story (and song) take wings. His picture, depicting him leaning over his cello, appears in an issue of the New York Times Magazine. An artist in Seattle sees it. Her name is Beliz Brother (real person, real name). She promptly organizes twenty two cellists.... to play in twenty two public places.... for twenty two days.... all over Seattle. On the final day, all twenty two play together (in front of a store window displaying twenty two burned out bread pans.... twenty two loaves of bread.... and twenty two roses).

In time, others pick up the song in other cities. And on the twentieth day of January last, twenty two cellists play In Washington, D.C. as Bill Clinton is formerly sworn into office.

The man who tells Vedran's story writes

Is this man crazy? Maybe. Is his gesture futile? In a conventional sense, of course. What madness to go out alone in the streets of war with but a wooden box and a hair-strung bow. But speaking softly with his cello (one note at a time), he does the only thing he knows how to do, making like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, calling out the rats that sometimes infest the human spirit.

Somehow, when I read that story last August, I knew that I would share it with you Christmas Eve. I didn't know whether Vedran Smallovic would approve.... or if he is even a Christian. But his is a Christmas story. For his cello, if it does nothing else, serves up a counterpoint to the agonizing madness of the world, and offers a harbinger of hope, that songs of the spirit cannot be silenced by gunfire, nor can beauty be buried in the ruins and rubble of this world's lunacy.

And what, my friends, is the promise of this very night, if not that one? For God, Himself, once surprised the world in a most unorthodox way.... and in a most unexpected place.... with a gift that became a counterpoint to that world's madness. Bethlehem has seldom been without its own brand of strife. When our Business Administrator, Bertha Fuqua, was there two weeks ago, she almost didn't get to Manger Square and the Grotto of the Holy Nativity, because of another uprising between the Israelis who patrol there, and the Palestinians who live there. For Bethlehem is a West Bank town, and you have no need to look further (for what that means) than the front page of this morning's Free Press.

Yet what Veciran Smailovic could never have known (as he played in front of the ruins of a bombed-out bakery in Sarajevo) is that the very word "Bethlehem" means (quite literally) "House of Bread," with the implication that the child who appeared there once (accompanied by the music of an angelic chorus and one small drum) would be capable of satisfying the hunger of bread-seekers everywhere, including those who (from much of the world) receive nothing but a stone.

One cellist in Sarajevo is not enough (of course), unless we also sing the song that is played there. Just as one baby in Bethlehem may not be enough, unless we also pass the love that is laid there. Christmas may be a counterpoint to much of the world's madness. But somebody needs to preach that truth.... or play it.... in places as diverse (this night) as Sarajevo and Seattle, and in high schools as diverse (this night) as Chadsey and Chelsea. "Comfort ye.... comfort ye my people," says God through the prophet. "And cry unto her that her warfare is ended." All of which is good news, you see. Unless there is someone at whom you are presently sniping.... or a "madness" where you live that needs to be countered. God comes to us, this night, as if to say: "You know, it doesn't really have to be this way. And you don't really have to be this way." My friends, when we stop believing this, the music will surely die, and Christ will come to the earth in December, no more.

Christmas Eve, 1993. Strangely different, for me, this year.  But challengingly so. New places. New faces. My only sister gone, from this life, permanently. My two children gone, from this house, Increasingly. The nest is largely empty.

But the nest is also feathered.... with more memories than regrets.... with more friends than rooms.... with kids who are proving to be as fascinating as adults as they were as children.... and with a wonderful woman who fills it (and me) with love. Late last night, in this very nest-like sanctuary, several of us were meeting over mechanics. With Chris and Doris Hall, Dick Kopple and Steve Langley, it was a time for moving pianos, resetting furniture and adjusting lights. Where would I stand? When would I move? Where would I go? All of these things had to do with my "fitting in".... here.... tonight.

Then later last night, with a log on the fire in the family room, came the realization (to Kris and myself) that fitting in was not really something that either of us had to achieve, so much as something that many of you have already made possible. For, like all good things, love has come to us as a gift.... more than either of us has really earned or deserved. And about the only thing we can say to our credit is that, whenever it has come, we have had enough good sense to open the door and let it in.

It is my prayer that love may come to you and yours, as it has to me and mine…. And that you will know what to do with it when it does.  Merry Christmas.  And may God bless you…. everyone.

Home By A Different Way 12/26/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 2:1-12

When I was a kid, Dick Bowman always got be a wise man....at least as I remember it. I think it had something to do with his being taller than the rest of us. Someone said that the church only had "tall" bathrobes. For all I know, Mrs. Bowman probably donated them.

It's funny how things like that stay with you. I can see those wise men coming down the aisle like it was yesterday. The organ was playing "We Three Kings of Orient Are." They looked so regal....so tall....so stately. Somebody had made crowns for them to wear, which were really cardboard cutouts covered with gold foil. Their bathrobes were tied with a sash. But it was the way they carried the gifts that captured me... .proudlycarefully.. ..with great dignity....as If transporting each item for the Christ child was a task for which they had rehearsed an entire lifetime. At last they reached the front of the church, deposited their gifts at the child's feet, nodded with oriental respectability in the general direction of Mary and Joseph, and then went to stand beside a cardboard cutout of a camel.

It wasn't until last Sunday night that I got to make that journey for myself. Suddenly it was my turn. Doris Hall was playing "We Three Kings" on the organ. My page, gift in hand, was standing at the ready. Suddenly Kate Wilcox was whispering in my ear that it was time to march down the aisle. I wondered aloud if I would know where to go. She reminded me that I had rehearsed this journey several times. Even if I forgot, I simply had to follow Bill Ives. Which I did. And it was marvelous.

It was years before I understood that things may not have happened exactly as depicted in the pageants. Over time, I learned that it is only in Matthew's gospel that these three from the East appear. I learned that later church tradition had them arriving, not on Christmas Eve at all, but twelve nights later. I learned that in spite of the familiar language of the carol, these visitors were not exactly kings....nor were they exactly from the Orient. New Testament scholar, Sherman Johnson, writes: "There is no way to ascertain whether the account of this visiting threesome has been embellished, or whether it even happened at all. For these verses have no parallel or corroboration In any other first century Christian writing."

They are not called "kings" at all. 'Wise men" is the more common translation, but "magi" is probably a better one. When we track the word to other sources, we find some evidence that "magi" was a word once ascribed to a tribe of Midian priests. Elsewhere, the same word 1 refers to a Zoroastrian priestly caste. In 60 AD. an embassy of Parthian magi (or priests) Is recorded in Roman chronicles as paying homage to the Roman emperor Nero, and "returning home by another way." Which is a most curious phrase, in that it first turns up In a Roman record written In 60 A.D., and then turns up in exactly the same manner in Matthew's gospel, written in 85 A.D.

It is also fascinating to note the linguistic linkage between the word "magi" and the word "magician." This may explain the growing body of acceptance for the idea that the "magi" may also have been magicians, or a particular group of magicians who used the stars in effecting their magic. Therefore, the "magi" may not have been wise men or kings at all, but astrologers. Matthew, it has been suggested, may have been referring to three visiting Babylonian astrologers. If you were to say that an astrologer is a long way from a king, you would probably be right. But then Babylon was a long way from the Orient, which goes to show you what sometimes happens to stories over time.

But that's all right. It really is. It may be that Matthew introduces foreign visitors into his story, simply as a way of saying: "Look, the birth of this child is no isolated event. This is a world event. This is not simply a Jewish Messiah. This is one who attracts foreigners." To have foreign visitors come to Bethlehem certainly magnifies the occasion. It gives it scope and significance. It broadens it out. It is like CBS covering an event in Standish. Or People Magazine sending a reporter to Iron River.

But It may be even more than that. If, Indeed, these men were astrologers....and if astrologers were, in some sense of the word, magicians.. ..and if astrological magic were as rampant then as it is today... .then perhaps Matthew is saying: "Look, even magic bows down before the Christ. When Christ comes, magic meets its match." Astrologers are humbled, in that they bow down and worship him. Astrologers may chart the heavens.

Jesus, however, rules the heavens. But, like I said, I didn't know all that years ago. And that's all right, too. For the test of the story is not solely in Its factual verifiability. The test of the story lies in the story's ability to lead us to Jesus. So we will hitchhike on any approach that works.

Which is, ironically, what Herod tries to do. Herod uses the Wise Men as his private vehicle of approach. Now why a king such as Herod should be interested in approaching this particular child is a question that strains the boundaries of credibility. Herod is a very powerful king. And Jesus is a very tiny baby. In point of fact, Herod is not interested in births at all....at least any Jewish birth. Herod is interested in Jewish ideas rather than in Jewish babies. Specifically, Herod is interested in Jewish political ideas. For Herod is a very political animal. And the one Jewish political idea which scares the daylights out of Herod, is the idea that a Messiah is coming... .one whose birth will fulfill the promised return of the Davidic Monarchy....one whose birth will quicken the pulse of every Jewish militant in the hills, and every ardent Zealot In the cities....one whose birth will stiffen the spine of this subjugated people....and one whose birth will give them a symbolic dream around which to rally. Herod has nothing to fear from the baby, himself. But Herod has plenty to fear from what the baby represents.

So, having heard the rumors, Herod is troubled. And all Jerusalem is troubled with him. You can understand that. If the king is happy, the people are happy. But if the king is anxious, neighborhood drugstores suffer a run on Maalox.

Herod summons Jewish religious leaders. "Look," he says, "you people have writings which talk about a special One who is to come. Now just assuming this preposterous claim were true, where might He appear?"

"In Bethlehem," he is told....which literally means "house of bread." Next, Herod summons the Wise Men (or magi....or astrologers) and says: "Look, I keep hearing about a birth....a town....and a star. And you guys are in the star business (not that I believe in such stuff, of course. I skip that section of the newspaper every morning. I don't even know what my sign is). But let's just suppose that someone were interested in this star stuff. When would this star show up?"

And they tell him. Which is followed by the part that intrigues me....the part that I have worked all this time to set up. Herod speaks again. "Look, why don't you guys check it out. Then come back and report to me, so that I might go and worship also."

Fat chance. This Is beginning to smell like a plot. And if these three astrologers from Babylon (or wherever) have any smarts about them at all, surely they can smell it too. For it smells of fear, and stinks like conspiracy. And underneath It is the faintly disguised odor of impending violence. Which is the correct odor. For we will not have to read much further into Matthew's second chapter before Jesus and his parents will be racing for cover in Egypt, with Herod slaughtering every male infant in sight, accompanied by the refrain of Rachel weeping in loud lament for her children. That's the part of the story we never read on Christmas Eve.

One permissible inference that can be drawn, Is that violence smears everything.. ..even the Christmas story. And I suspect that everybody knows that. I suspect that our three astrologers knew that, which is why they initially played bail with Herod. They stopped by for a chat. They went on his mission. But what choice did they have. You get along by going along. These guys are not stupid. They know Herod's game. And they know Herod's fame. They know that upon reporting back to Herod concerning the child's whereabouts and hair color, Herod isn't going to wrap a baby gift and go between the hours of 2 and 4 o'clock to tap on some maternity room window, saying: "Show me that one over there....the one with the blue blanket....that cute little Jewish kid." No, they know Herod's not going to do that. What Herod is going to do, they are not sure. But they know he's not going to do that. Still, one suspects that they are prepared to come back and tell Herod everything he wants to know. That is, until they see the child. The scriptures are so simple and unadorned here. They enter the house. (Note that there is no stable in Matthew's gospel. Stables are Luke's thing). They enter the house. They see the child with his mother. They fall down. They worship. They open presents. And then, 'Warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they depart for their own country by another way."

You know, It was years before I gave any thought to this business about an alternative route home. After all, people vary their journeys all the time. You come by one road. You go 3 home by a different road. Maybe you do It for variety. Maybe you do it for scenery. Maybe the first road was too slow....too rough....too obstructed. Maybe you receive a tip from one of the locals, or stumble upon a guidebook you hadn't seen before. Maybe you take a chance while you're In the area and call your long lost uncle Jack, who tells you that an additional 85 miles will put you at his doorstep in time for dinner. Or maybe you are swayed from your original course by two of the most persuasive words in the English language, "outlet shopping."

But let's not kid ourselves. None of these things explain why these men of the Orient (or Babylon) go home by a different route. They know that if they retrace the steps that brought them to the baby, those steps will take them back through Herod's house... .Herod's fear....Herod's plot....and Herod's predilection to smear everything he touches with violence. It could be that they were cowardly, seeking to save their own necks. It could be that they were crafty, seeking to save Jesus' neck. Or it could be that, having been to the manger, they said to themselves: "After searching for lo these many days (months? years?) we have seen a glimpse of a better way than Herod's way, and are going to take one small step down a different road."

My friends, I don't know about you, but I am tired of the violence that smears so much of my history. I am tired of talking about it. I am tired of trying to understand it. I am tired of listening to explanations of it. And I am tired of watching everybody try to blame everybody else for it.

What's more, I think that a lot of you are where I am. I think that there is a ripeness and a readiness to move beyond anger... .beyond avoidance..., beyond frustration... .and beyond impotence, that I have not seen or felt before. I think that a lot of us are beginning to realize that we come equipped with two hands, and that it is no longer enough to simply wring them... .wash them....cover our eyes with them....pass the buck with them... .or point the fingers of them.

I think of the grandmother I told you about last week, who actually watched the video game she bought for her grandson, before taking it back to the store because of its excessive violence.

I think of the wife of the Chelsea teacher (the teacher who gunned down the superintendent) who first called the victim's office with a word of warning, then confronted her husband as he faced her with his gun, and then was the first to administer CPR to the dying victim.

I think of the Walmart people who one day last week said: `We're not going to sell anymore handguns." Then they went on to add: 'This isn't anything political or constitutional. We're not taking a stand on any issue or confronting any lobby. We simply don't believe that this is a business that the majority of our customers want us to be in." And then I think of any number of you who are quietly writing a letter....switching a channel....turning a cheek....sending a buck to somebody who appears to be making a dtfference....or quietly vowing to think a second time before screaming, blowing the horn, cussing somebody out, slipping somebody the one finger salute, slapping a kid, shoving a spouse, or actually striking anybody (or anything).

My friends, failure to try something different....anything different. ...simply sends us back through Herod's house to perpetuate Herod's way. At least the men of the Orient knew better. Which, come to think of it, may be why history records them as wise.

Not Everything Is About You 5/10/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Exodus 20:1-6

Only in Detroit would anyone understand the logic of linking the lowly octopus and the lovely Karen Newman in the same sentence. The common denominator, of course, being our beloved Red Wings and their annual post-Easter pursuit of the Stanley Cup. People throw octopi on the ice during the games, while Karen Newman sings the National Anthem before the games. The octopus has eight legs (tentacles) which once symbolized the eight wins it took to claim Lord Stanley’s trophy. But times have changed. Now it takes 16 wins, thereby requiring (I suppose) two octopi.

Nobody throws Karen Newman onto the ice, although she was once lowered from the rafters on a trapeze-like swing (with the house lights off and the spotlights on) before taking her position….center ice….to sing about the “rockets’ red glare.” But she’s a fixture….nearly as important as Stevie Yzerman.

Still, she almost didn’t make it this year. Because just six weeks and two days ago, Karen Newman gave birth to twins. “So much for glamour,” she said. “And so much for sleep. They’ve turned my life upside down and my focus inside out.” Which was followed by this. “It’s not about me anymore. It’s no longer just about me.” Which, I suppose, is one way of saying that while Karen Newman is still “center ice,” she is no longer center stage. Her presence no longer dominates the room. Her needs no longer arrange the day.

It takes a while to learn this, I suppose. When you are a child, you live in a very small world. Many days, it would seem that you are the only one in it. We’ve all watched it. Mother’s busy. Father’s busy. Talking to each other. Talking with friends. Talking on the phone. Kid interrupts with an announcement or a request which, 89.6 percent of the time, is trivial. And no matter how many times the child is told “hold your horses”….“later on”….“in a minute”….there is no backing down on the part of the child. At that moment, everything is about them and they expect the rest of the world to understand that and arrange itself accordingly.

It changes a bit when kids become teenagers. They still think the spotlight is on them. But they are not always certain they like it. If they think their hair doesn’t look right….their skin doesn’t look right….their shape doesn’t look right….their clothing doesn’t look right….just try telling them not to worry or obsess over it (that nobody is going to notice and, even if they do, nobody is going to care). Because they are certain that absolutely everybody is going to notice, and be so critical in their “noticing” that (from that day forward) the next several months of their life will be ruined….absolutely ruined.

I remember feeling that, even as I applied gobs of coffee-colored zit cream stuff to hide the blemishes on my face before school, church, wherever. And if my mother had said, “That goop looks worse than the zits you’re trying to cover,” I wouldn’t have believed her. And if she had said, “Nobody cares what you look like,” I would have wondered what planet she lived on. And if she pointed out that it was more than a little arrogant and self-centered of me to assume that the whole world would stop what it was doing so as to be attuned to my face, I would have wondered how anybody who loved me could be so insensitive to my predicament.

Not too many moons ago, I encountered a troubled young bridesmaid in the narthex. She was too old to be a junior bridesmaid, but too young (really) for the big title. She was alternately pouting and throwing hissy fits before her cousin’s wedding because she didn’t like the dress….didn’t look good in the dress….looked fat in the dress….and “who in their right mind would pick such a stupid dress in the first place.” First one person, then another, tried to calm her, comfort her, assuage her, placate her….even to the point of offering last-minute surgery with needle and thread to please her….all the while trying to keep her out of the bride’s line of vision, so as not to magnify the upset and shove everybody over the edge.

None of which was working. In fact, I got the decided impression that she was getting some perverse kind of pleasure out of the attention she was getting….what with everybody doing this, that and the other thing to make it right, and make her stop.

Finally, I asked her what the matter was (even though I knew full well what the matter was). So she repeated her lament. In response to which I said something like this:

Look, I know you don’t like the dress….don’t feel good in the dress….wouldn’t have picked the dress for yourself in a million years….and figure that everybody (upon seeing you in it) is going to feel similarly about it. To me, your dress looks fine. But what do I know? I’m not everybody. But neither are you. This isn’t my day. But it isn’t yours, either. This is not about you. This is about your cousin. Some day it will be about you. Then, hopefully, you will have the perfect dress. But for now, I think you need to suck it up and go out there in the one you’re wearing.

And she did. Sure, it was a risky approach. But what did I have to lose? Nothing else was working. And give the kid a ton of credit for recognizing the truth when she heard it….that there are times when it’s not about you, I mean.

Frankly, this surfaces at weddings all the time….with people of all ages. I run into people who aren’t going to come if somebody else comes. Balanced by the people who are not going to come unless somebody else comes (“What do you mean, don’t bring my three year old?”). Even brides and grooms get weird on occasion. Every time I hear “It’s our day and we can do whatever we want,” the hairs on the back of my neck stand up (even though I retain my outwardly-calm and almost-always-charming demeanor). I want to tell them that while love may be personal and private, weddings are public expressions of that love. Which means that brides and grooms have to be sensitive to the various “publics” involved….either that, or tie their knots privately in my office on Thursdays at noon.

Not everything is about you. Kids have to learn it. Wedding participants have to learn it. Athletes….especially athletes….have to learn it (thank you, Jerry Stackhouse). And Christians have to learn it, too. I can’t begin to tell you how many fires I’ve tried to hose down in 37 years of church work because somebody didn’t get enough attention, enough deference, enough limelight, enough love. This is true of staff members as well as congregants. It is also true of yours truly (mea culpa). There is none of us without guilt, here.

As church issues go, I believe that maybe ten percent are about theology (what is believed). Another ten percent are about strategies of implementation (who is served). A third ten percent are about politics and protocol (how things get done). The other seventy percent are about “How much do you love me?” Maybe that’s high. But not by much.

If you’re wondering where all this is coming from, you need go no further back than a couple of Wednesdays when my “crack of dawn” men’s group was discussing the word “idolatry” in Kathleen Norris’ prize-winning glossary entitled Amazing Grace.

The Old Testament is big on idolatry (as in being against it, not for it). The Ten Commandments were given to guard against it. No other gods. No graven images. No bowing down before anything of any kind, fashioned by anybody for any reason.  The goal being to keep a proper perspective on things. God in the center. Everything else relating to the center….taking cues from the center….giving deference to the center….paying homage to the center….drawing power from the center.

But, in our time, when we think of idolatry we make a pair of errors. The first error assumes that idols are always coveted objects. I’m talking statues, here….icons, books, pictures. We love that Old Testament story where the Israelites got tired of waiting for a new word from God (don’t we all) and said: “While we’re waiting, why don’t we all take off our gold chains, our gold bracelets, our gold necklaces, along with those gold studs and hoops that we shove into the holes in our ears that we made with an ice pick. Then let’s throw them all into the campfire and see what comes out.” Which, as you will remember, turned out to be a golden calf (“Wow, where’d that come from?”). But what makes that story so likeable is that we can all chortle and say: “Hey, we never did that.”

And the second error we make is to assume that idols, rather than coveted objects, are coveted statuses. Getting rich. Getting power. Getting recognition. Getting elevation (for me and mine, us and ours). “My brother and I want big time jobs in your cabinet, Jesus,” said Jimmy and John. About which we’ve talked before. But what we’ve not noted before is the fact that the other ten were (how does the Bible say it?) “indignant” at the greedy two. Not, scholars say, because James and John asked. But because they asked first.

But could it be (asks Kathleen Norris) that idols are not so much external to us, but intrinsic in us….that we (ourselves) assume idol-like status, by assuming that the world really does revolve around us and, to whatever degree it doesn’t, it should.

To which Jesus says: “Look, that’s all well and good, but don’t fool yourself. You are not likely to find your life until you lose it. No, you’re not likely to find it at all.”

Interesting, isn’t it, that almost all our associations with the word “loss” are negative. None of us wants to be lost….geographically or spiritually. Few of us want to admit we are lost (“If we just drive around a while, I am sure I will recognize one of these streets sooner or later”). Most of us would fight someone who told us to “get lost.” And all of us feel the pain in the Ernie Harwell’s voice when he is forced to report another game in the loss column.

But all of these images pale in comparison with the phrase “He’s losing it”….“She’s losing it”…..“You’re losing it”….“I’m losing it.”  That’s pretty much the worst thing you can say about anybody. Or to anybody. But Jesus says: “You know, you probably won’t get anywhere in life until you do….lose it, I mean.”

So what does that mean? Well, one thing it means is that not everything is about you. Moreover, you are going to do better, be happier and maybe even live longer when you get yourself out of the center. Which is hard to do. Because you can’t surrender a self you haven’t found. So some navel-gazing and mirror-peering is both permissible and essential. But it can become an obsession, don’t you see.

One of the more interesting authors I have read in recent years is Dan Wakefield who, after years as a Hollywood screenwriter, has taken to writing spiritual memoirs such as Returning and How Do WeKnow When It’s God? While Wakefield’s books aren’t great, they are good….and brutally honest. After decades of atheism and hard living, Wakefield wandered into a church in Boston’s Back Bay one Christmas Eve. And everything he has written since chronicles his subsequent journey.  As testimonies go, his is not a hugely-ascending success story. But it’s an illuminating story….an instructive story….and (for those of us well acquainted with our own personal demons and detours) an inspiring story.

What interests me this morning is his recollection of a salvation moment. It occurred in a soup kitchen in East Harlem. No, he wasn’t eating. He was serving. Money was never that big an object. Although, when he reached the point in his psychoanalysis in midtown Manhattan that he was going three hours a week, he was going through money as fast as he was going through memory.

Which is no knock on analysis. He needed it. He sought it. He benefited from it. But he crossed the line in the advanced stages of it where he became so consumed with probing his life, that one day he walked out of his analyst’s office and realized he no longer had one. A life, I mean. And if you can’t understand that, then I fear you can’t understand the Gospel, either. So where did he find his life? Spooning soup in East Harlem, that’s where he found his life. Where, for the first time in a long time in his life, he realized it wasn’t about him.