Man Overboard 10/31/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 14:22-33

Let me redraw, from memory, a cartoon from some years ago. Picture an executive office, high atop an urban skyscraper. Picture a magnificent desk, as polished as it is huge, complete with a C.E.O. type seated behind it. Standing before the desk, picture a plain man dressed in work clothes, obviously representative of a menial employee in the organization. Then picture that man saying to his boss: "If it's any comfort, sir, it's lonely at the bottom too."

If we didn't know it before, we should surely know it now: no matter who you are.... no matter where you are.... no matter what you are... life can be both low and lonely. "Low," because the bottom has a way of failing out.  And "lonely," because people have a way of falling away.

Last week, in our initial foray into this dramatic story of storm and sea, we talked about why it always seems darker at 3:00 in the morning than at any other time of the day or night. Several of you were kind enough to say that I had correctly captured your feelings associated with that hour, intimating that as a result of having been there once or twice, you remembered it well. One of you went so far as to research a couple of literary allusions to this biblical reference, especially F. Scott Fitzgerald's recollection that 3:00 in the morning and "the dark night of the soul" is one and the same thing. I like that, given my desire to have you understand that the 3:00 image in this story is not solely about how dark it can get outside, but how dark it can get inside. So let me take you back to Galilee (the sea, that is).....and the storm which, when last we left it, was battering boats and trying souls in the wee small hours of the morning.

As you will remember, last Sunday's sermon ended with Jesus walking toward the weary crew, high-stepping it across the waves. How? That's anybody's guess. But that's not the issue. You're not supposed to get all strung out over the question of "could he or couldn't he" (walk the waves, that is). The message of that part of the story is not that Jesus comes by impossible means, but that Jesus comes at impossible times. Jesus has this way of showing up (the story seems to say) just when you think that nobody can.... or will.

At any rate, the boat people see him coming. Or, to be more specific, they see someone.... or something.... coming. They are terrified. "It's a ghost," they say, crying out in fear. How strange, says Fred Craddock, that the Savior should seem like a spook. Perhaps it was the downpour.  Perhaps, the delirium. It wouldn't be the first time that, in the middle of a crisis (or in the middle of the night), someone couldn't see or think straight.

Or perhaps they saw in him, not the harbinger of help, but the visitation of death. I can understand that. People sometimes view me that way. I will be talking with "good" church people (like you) about some unchurched people (known to you). The latter are temporarily sick and in the hospital. That seems to concern you. Thinking that you are fishing for my offer to make a visit, I express a willingness to trek to the hospital. At first, you accept my generous offer. Then you think better of it. To be sure, you'd like me to go. But you are worried that were I to go (meaning that if a minister were suddenly to show up), the patient would think he was dying. And you're probably right. Some people think that way. "If a minister comes 'round, I must be in a really bad way. There must be something that somebody isn't telling me. He wouldn't be coming in, if I wasn't checking out."  And so I stay away, lest my help be misperceived as doom. Jesus reads that fear and decides to address it. "Don't be afraid," he says. "Courage, it is I." Which should have done it. But it didn't. For the next sentence out of Peter's mouth betrays how deep his suspicion really is. "Lord," Peter says, "If it is you, tell me to come to you across the water.”

I love that line, probably because (for so many years) I missed its meaning completely. Think, for a moment, about how you would identify your friend from an impostor, especially if it was too dark to see clearly and too stormy to hear accurately. You would probably look for something in the message itself that would seem consistent-with, and typical-of, the kind of thing your friend might say to you.  So it is with Peter. Confronted with the possibility that what he is seeing might be both ghostly and ghastly, Peter is not about to trust a simple: "Courage, 'tis me." Instead, he says: "Lord, I'll know it's you if you ask me to come to you across the water." In reality, I think Peter is thinking something like this:

The Lord I know.... indeed the only Lord I have ever known.... is the one who asks more of me than anybody ever asked of me before. So if this is really the Lord (who has come at this impossible time), I'm going to know it by the fact that I'll be invited to respond in an equally impossible way. If it's really Jesus, he is going to step-into-the-breach by asking me to step-up-to the test.

That's just his way. That's always been his way. That's his trademark. If it's really Jesus (and not some ghostly apparition or figment of my imagination), the next word out of his mouth is going to be: "Peter, come."

My friends, that's how you know the real Jesus from the fakes. And that's how you tell the real Christian church from all of the ones that use the name and put a cross on the roof, but bear no resemblance to the real thing.

I know that the world doesn't lack for institutions claiming to be the "one true church." Customarily, they stake their claim on the fact that they hold one particular belief, affirm one peculiar doctrine, or baptize in one certain way. But if there is any institution even remotely on the right road to the truth about Jesus Christ, It is going to be that institution which (in the name of Jesus) asks more of you than it offers to give to you.

It is so tempting for the church of Jesus Christ to ride out the storms of our day by hunkering down with a good book and reading it in the fiery glow that is generated by friends who are tried, true and compatible. But that's not the church of the New Testament. Over the last several years, I have attended any number of "church growth" seminars, all of them purporting to know the secret of getting "baby boomers" to join up and become members. The theory is advanced that "boomers are consumers" who "shop" for churches like they shop for anything else. They like quality.... expect quality.... demand quality.... and (if attracted) are even willing to pay for quality.  Music is important to them; it had better be good. Children are important to them; there had better be plenty of activities for them (and not in the basement, either). Given some other things that are important to them, there had better be seminars for growth, groups for friends, and parking that rivals the mall for ease and convenience. And woe be unto the church that doesn't realize that, for 'boomers," the crib nursery has replaced the ladies' parlor as the room that is second in importance, only to the sanctuary.

I understand that. I have modified much of my ministry to accommodate that. What's more, I have learned that it's not just "boomers" who are demanding greater and greater degrees of excellence in every facet of the church's life. It's everybody from little kids to the rocking chair set. The things against which the church must compete for the attention and assets of its members are so slick and professional that we have to offer twice as much, and do it twice as well, just to keep up.

But I still believe (deep in my heart and soul) that people want to be stretched as well as massaged, challenged as well as coddled, and confronted repeatedly with the biblical paradox that says you've got to invest in order to enjoy, serve in order to live, and give whole big chunks of yourself away if you ever expect to come upon a self worth finding.

Instinctively, I think we know this.... that the only Christ worth heeding and the only church worth joining is one that says: "Get over the side. Get your feet wet. Do what you don't think you can do. Go where you don't think you can go. And give what you don't think you can give."

So, you see, I don't apologize for the fact that we ask a lot of you.... and from you.... here at Birmingham First. I don't apologize for the fact that before next October rolls around, we are going to ask you to teach in a second Sunday School at the 11:00 hour, or take a leadership role in other growing programs. I don't apologize for the fact that, even as we speak, members of the Nominating Committee are buzzing some of your phone lines, asking you do accept positions in our church's officiary. I don't apologize for the fact that we ask some of you to perform great music, others of you to prepare hearty meals, while asking still others to pray for the sickly, visit the elderly, carry food to the hungry, repair flood damage in the valley, shelter the homeless occasionally, or lay down on a table and bleed into a plastic bag annually. Nor do I apologize for the fact that we sometimes ask some of you to head for the hills (as in Appalachia), or down to the Corridor (as in Cass), or, at the very least, dig a little deeper into your pocket in order to support those who do. And I am certainly not going to apologize for being the point man who asks you to step up to the financial challenges that this year's campaign will articulate.

Every non-Birmingham person I met last spring said: "Congratulations on your appointment; you're going to a great church." And every Birmingham insider I met last spring said: "Congratulations on your appointment: you're coming to a great church." And every one of you I have met (at every meeting I have attended since June 27) has done nothing to diminish the idea that I have arrived at a great church. But when I sift through reams of data about attendance and stewardship patterns.... pledge profiles and giving tables.... it is hard to escape the fact that this "great church" is also a slightly complacent church. To be sure, from out front it's hardly noticeable. But I guarantee you, if our response to this year's appeal continues the pattern of slippage evidenced in the responses to recent year's appeals; there will be little choice but to take the kinds of steps that will be noticeable. ... and perhaps even painful.

But it doesn't have to be that way. In Christ, we can summon the will. And in the mountains of written Information being shared with you, can be found the way. What's more, virtually very conversation I have with you reveals a sense of readiness on your part.... even a hunger.... to get on with whatever God has in store for us next. Stormy though it may be, and tired though we may be, I sense a collective readiness to hear the Gospel.

"Get out of the boat," Jesus said to Peter. And Peter must have said something like this to himself:

Hey, I've heard this before. I've done this before. And it worked before. Granted, my boat was tied up to the shore before. There was no storm before. And it wasn't the middle of the night before. But if it's really Jesus....given that I have already left my boat and followed Him once....why should I let a little deep water stop me now?

And with that, Peter was over the side. I like that in Peter.  Heck, I like that in anybody. There are those who test the waters, a toe at a time. And there are those who jump right in. In a world filled with the former, I find that I increasingly relish the latter.

To be sure, there is always a time for prudence.... for caution.... for calculation. And there are people who are good at such things. I have always tried to keep a number of prudent folk around me. We have done some "careful work" together. But it has only been when I have widened the circle around me to include a few first-out-of-the-boat people, that "careful work" has occasionally become "great work," and church maintenance has begun to feel like Christian ministry.

Of late, I have taken to sharing with a few of my friends the highest compliment that I can possibly pay them. I tell them that, were I ever to find myself in great distress (or great trouble) and had but 20 cents and the opportunity to make one phone call, that I could (and would) call them. For I know that they would come first and ask questions later. They would come, whether I needed a lift or a loan.... a friend or a witness. I know that I could ring up their boat and it wouldn't matter as to the lateness of the hour or the severity of the storm. They would have one leg over the side while their hand would still be warm on the receiver. What is amazing is how many people I truly feel that way about. And what it equally amazing is that every one of those people is someone I met in church.

All of us know people like that. And, to some degree, all of us are people like that. There is not a one of us who wouldn't step out for somebody, or step up to something. None of us is so fat and sassy.... so lazy and lethargic.... so content and comfortable.... that we would rot in the boat forever. The question is; "How wet will we get for what, and how far will we go for whom?"

The danger, of course, is that we will hear the summons and wait to see what everybody else does first. Like a group of junior high girls trying to decide whether to attend some 8th grade dance, the church of Jesus Christ is often filled with people looking quizzically at each other, saying: "I'll go if you'll go.... I'll do what you'll do.... but let's not try anything until we're sure that we are all in this together." In this church, it often takes the form of people saying: "What we have to do is get more money out of all those people who don't give us anything." Which is not a bad idea, but which sounds (each time I hear it) less like your suggestion of how to proceed congregationally, and more like your deflection of whatever it is you are being asked to do personally.

Notice that our story is not about a request for everybody in the boat to swim two or three strokes for Jesus, but for one particular individual to step out into the fray in response to Jesus. And make no mistake about it, this story is not told for the benefit of the rest of the people in the boat. This story is told for you.

As I wrote in this week's Steeple Notes, this trio of sermons owes its inspiration to an anonymous admirer of our former Bishop, Judy Craig. One day he gave her a lapel badge which read: 'WALKING ON WATER IS A PART OF MY JOB DESCRIPTION." My friends,

That’s not only funny,
             that's not only true,

                      that's not only mandatory,

                               that's possible!

0, Ye of Little Faith 11/14/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham,Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 14:22-33
 

Two weeks ago Sunday afternoon, Kris and I opened our living room to host the reunion of our most recent trip to Israel. People came from any number of places, complete with stories to tell, pictures to pass and memories to rekindle. Also present was our Jewish travel agent, who (over the course of arranging our last couple of trips) has moved from the category of "consultant" to the status of "friend." It was she who asked the assembled tour members for their most vivid memories. For some, it was the Mount of Olives. For others, the manger of Bethlehem. Several responded to the communion experience at the Garden Tomb. One man said," Masada." Another, "the Temple of Karnak" in Egypt. But by far the greatest number sited experiences on or around the Sea of Galilee.

Which was where I was when I last worked with this little slice of biblical material. I was preaching on the open deck of a boat, in the middle of the Galilean Lake. With the engines killed, the seagulls swirling, and the waves lapping counterpoint to my words, I told this story. In reality, I tried to place my listeners into the midst of this story. Which worked.... sort of.... except for two things. Instead of being 3:00 in the morning, it was 3:00 in the afternoon. And instead of being storm-driven and tempest-tossed, the sea was as calm as glass. So my listeners had to pretend that it was dark.... pretend that it was stormy.... pretend that their arms were weary.... and pretend that their stomachs were queasy. Which probably wasn't all that hard, given that life occasionally feels that way.

Then they had to pretend (at least to the degree that they wanted to "feel" the story) that Jesus had just called one of them over the rail, literally commanding that the boat be abandoned for a walk on the wet side. As pretentions go, this was considerably harder.  Because seldom, in real life, does anyone act that way. Which is understandable. I think that most of us identify more readily with life's storms and stresses, than with the possibility of walking through, over or around them.

Three weeks ago, in the first of these sermons, I talked about what it sometimes feels like at 3:00 in the morning. I also talked about what it might feel like to see Jesus walking toward your boat in the midst of a storm. You liked that sermon. A lot. Then two weeks ago, I talked about Peter leaving the boat and walking toward Jesus. You liked that sermon too.  But maybe a little less. Still, it was the second sermon which inspired a note describing a personal reaction to Peter's vacating what little security the boat afforded, for the risky business of sallying-forth into waters that were murky and deep. The note read: 'When I think of the fear Peter must have felt, I am convinced that he must have had a tremendous amount of faith.... more than most of us have.... and certainly more than I have."

That's our problem with the text, isn't it? It's not that we are all hung up on the quasi-miraculous nature of the story. We aren't gathered in corners of the sanctuary, debating the kinds of issues that would excite a Baptist.... namely issues of miracle versus natural law (as in wondering how an object denser than water can remain atop the water without the aid of surfboards, jet skis, water wings or other flotation devices). We know that this text is not primarily about a one-time freakish occurrence of nature. This text is about answering a call from Jesus (which can come at any time), and remaining faithful to that call when it is late instead of early, dark instead of light, and perilous instead of promising. This text is about letting go of an old security (which is about to get swamped anyway), for a new possibility (which, when we first hear it, is as frightening as it is compelling). For we know that the Christ who comes toward us, is probably going to expect some reciprocal movement from us.

So Peter gets out of the boat. Which is nothing new. He did it a couple of years earlier. That was when Jesus said to him: 'Why not beach your boat, stay on land for a while, and join me in fishing for a different kind of catch?" And if you don't think that Peter's earlier decision (in its own way) was risky, when was the last time you gave up a relatively secure occupation in obedience to what you perceived to be a higher calling?

Now Peter is out of the boat.... again. And this time the water is deeper and the hour is darker. There he goes.  Can you see him?  I don't want you to miss this.  Up and over.  First one leg. Two legs.  One step. Two steps.  Then next steps.  Followed by more steps.  For God's sake, he's actually doing it. Let there be no question about his motivation. Neither let there be any question about his progress. Walk on through the wind, Peter, walk on through the rain, though your dreams be tossed and blown.  Walk on, good friend, with hope in your heart....

I'm not being melodramatic here. I'm simply trying to show you that Peter starts well. And while his jaunt is dramatic, it is not abnormal. Jesus invites. Peter executes. It is the most natural thing in the world. It is well within Peter's capacity to do what Jesus asks. We mess up the story royally when we assume that water-walking is the aberration and that sinking is the expectation. Most of us get it backwards. When Peter sinks, we say: "Of course." But we are supposed to say, "Of course," when Peter is still striding across the waters. Ah, yes. Peter starts well.  And nothing could be more natural than that.  Nothing.

Ever since Robert Fulghum wrote a book entitled "All I Really Needed To Know, I Learned In Kindergarten," he has been in great demand as a public speaker, especially in schools.  Ironically, most of his invitations have come from kindergartens or colleges. He readily visits both, finding that (in many respects) the difference is only one of scale. It would seem that a school, is a school, is a school. The most visible disparity, he says, is in the self-image of the students.

Ask a Kindergarten class, "how many of you can draw?" And all hands shoot up. Yes, of course we can draw....all of us. What can you draw? Anything! How about a dog eating a fire truck in the jungle? Sure! How big do you want the dog?

How many of you can sing? All hands go up. Of course we sing! What can you sing? Anything! What if you don't know the words? No problem, we'll make them up as we go along. So shall we sing? Why not!

How many of you dance? Unanimous again. What kind of music do you like to dance to? Any kind! Let's dance! Sure, why not?

Do you like to act in plays? Yes! Do you play musical instruments? Yes! Do you write poetry? Yes! We're learning that stuff now.

Their answer is "Yes"! Over and over again. Kindergarten children are confident in spirit, infinite in resources, and eager to learn. Everything is still possible. 

Try those same questions on a college audience. A small percentage of the students will raise their hands when asked if they draw, dance, sing, paint, or play an instrument. Not infrequently, those who do raise their hands will qualify their response with any number of limitations. "I only play piano.... I only draw horses.... I only dance to rock and roll.... I only sing in the shower." When asked the reasons for the limitations, college students answer that they do not have talent... are not majoring in the subject... have not done any of these things since the third grade.... or are embarrassed for others to see them try.

 What went wrong between kindergarten and college?

What happened to: "Yes, of course I can?"

We all started well when we were young. It was easier then. Obstacles were smaller then. Storms were either brief or non- existent then. Alas, not everybody finishes well. To which Peter can certainly attest. For just when it seems that nothing can stop him, our text suggest that Peter stopped himself. He read too many negative signals and believed every last one of them. He looked at how dark it was.... how deep it was.... how windy it was.... how raw and cutting it was. None of which was new information. But suddenly he felt cause to say: "I am beyond my limit. I am over my head. I am out of my league. I am no match for this." And suddenly, he wasn't.

In this morning's Steeple Notes I alluded to water skiing. It is not something I do well. But I have done it. I can do it. And, about the time that Bill and Julie indicate an interest in sending me off to the farm, I will probably feel some compulsion to do it again. Just to make a point. My last time out.... or up.... was to impress a couple of women (my wife and my daughter). It was the year of my 50th birthday. The boat was piloted by a friend. I think it was a battleship. Anyway, I made it most of the way around the lake, until I though to myself: "Wait a minute; I can't really be doing this." Which, of course, was exactly the wrong thing to think. Because the minute I thought I couldn't be doing this, I wasn't.

This happens to all of us. Suddenly we find ourselves.... much to our surprise.... doing improbable things, In unlikely ways, at the most demanding times. Then we say: "This can't be me." And suddenly it isn't.  Which is when things fall apart. We fall down, just when we were up. We fall apart, just when we were holding it together. And we take a fall, just when we were making nice forward progress.

All of which happens because we look at the wrong signs. Or we look in the wrong directions. I hate heights. I don't like ladders. I have no small number of horror stories about climbing. All of them include memories of much tentativeness, terror and teeth-clenching. Don't ever look for me to re-roof the parsonage. But if the stakes were high enough.... or if the need was great enough.... I know that I could climb a ladder tomorrow. I would never look down. I would never look back. I would never look to either side. For diverting my focus would almost certainly undermine my progress. Where ladders are concerned, the moment I stop looking up is the moment I stop going up.

Life is no different. You have to figure out what to do with your eyes. For there is plenty of negativity to look back upon. There are plenty of reasons for falling, failing, or not starting at all.  What's more, we don't have to look very far outside the self to find those reasons.  Everyone of us is carrying baggage from the past that is sufficient to sink us.

The problem with being a Christian is not that life is dark and stormy. The problem with being a Christian is that we are suspended between a pair of mixed signals.... one of which is a storm-shadowed Christ saying, "Come," and the other of which is a contrary wind screaming, "No way." But I would contend that Christ is every bit the wind's equal, and that others have found it so.

So if you want to believe that nobody knows the trouble you've seen, don't read biographies. Because if you do,  you'll read about people who have known what you've seen, and worse.

And if you want to believe that you can't overcome whatever it is that is overcoming you, then don't turn your head from side to side in this sanctuary. Because if you do, you will see people who have faced worse, and kept going.

And if you want to believe that this is a time of peril, danger, lawlessness, laziness, depression, recession, addiction or affliction (unlike any that has gone before), then don't read history. Because if you read history, you are going to discover that worse times have existed and been surmounted.

To be sure, there is misery in the world. There is pain in your life. There is struggle all around. Stormy things that have happened to you which have crushed your dreams, wounded your heart and slowed your progress. Those things have made you unhappy. They have also made you tentative, fearful and dubious. That's understandable. If you didn't feel that way, something would be wrong with you. But there is still one thing that you have to decide. Which signals are going to command your attention? Are you going to sink under the weight of injustices done to you and grievances collected on account? Or are you going to take Christ at His word when he says that you not only have a future, but a way to get there?

But what if you sink? Well, if you sink, you sink. The story seems to suggest that sinking is regrettable, but understandable. Peter sinks. It earns him a rebuke. He is chided for his "little faith." Actually, the literal translation would suggest that he is chided for "incomplete faith," or ''half faith." But don't miss this. Peter's faith-failure is not a failure to hear Jesus.... not a failure to heed Jesus.... not a failure to put it on the line for Jesus. Rather, it is a failure to believe that he (Peter) could finish what he started for Jesus.

Over the last trio of weeks I have been using these sermons as a stewardship theme.... believing that this text, in this hour, could very well be the appointed word for this congregation. And I suppose that some of you have wondered: "Where does Ritter see us in this little tale? Does he really think that we are cowering in the bow of the boat, trying hard not to hear Jesus, and trying harder still to avoid attempting anything difficult for Jesus?"

Well, if that's what you figured, you are wrong. I don't see you that way at all. Instead, I see you as someone who (at some time in your life).... maybe a year ago.... five years ago.... fifty years ago.... or just last Sunday.... took a very real step forward for Jesus. All I am trying to do with this final sermon is to get you to take another one.... the better to turn your first step into a two-step.

Early in the sermon, I said that the world misses the point of this text when it greets Peter's sinking with a collective, "Of course....what could one reasonably expect?" Obviously, Jesus expected much more, which is why sinking drew a rebuke from the lips of the Lord.

But I would not want to close this sermon (or this series) without the subtle grace note of the text itself. For along with the rebuke, sinking also draws a rescue. For, as the text adds: "Jesus immediately reached out His hand to Peter and caught him." That, too, is the Gospel. It is preserved in a slice of ancient hymnody. I enter it in the middle (and invite those of you who know it to join along with me).

Still the Master of my fate,
heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me,
now safe am I.

Love lifted me.

Love lifted me.

When nothing else could help,

Love lifted me.

Editor's note:

This trio of sermons, based on Matthew 14:22-33, were delivered as part of a stewardship emphasis at First United Methodist Church in Birmingham entitled "Water Walkers." Inspiration for the series was drawn from a sermon preached, years earlier, at First United Methodist Church in Evanston, Illinois by Dr. Neal Fisher, President of Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary. Some of the material for these three sermons originally appeared in a single sermon entitled, "Savior By Stormlight" which was subsequently quoted by Maxie Dunnam in his book: 'That's What The Man Said." Robert Fulghum's account of speaking to kindergarten children and college students first appeared in his book entitled: "Uh-Oh." The concluding thoughts about not reading biographies or looking at one's neighbors in the sanctuary come from the fertile mind of Mark Trotter and were also collected in the aforementioned book by Maxie Dunnam.

A Chainsaw for Christmas 12/5/1993

William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Matthew 26: 51-54; I Corinthians 1: 26-31

Over the course of the last few days, I have managed to reacquaint myself with my hammer, my screw driver, my handy-dandy pliers, my trusty wire cutters, and a couple of step ladders of varying heights and stabilities. I needed those tools because there were a few things around the house that needed to be hung, secured or adjusted in preparation for the visits that many of you will make to the parsonage this afternoon.

Notice that I did not equate the use of these tools with the "fixing" of anything around the parsonage in preparation for your visits this afternoon. That's because I seldom "fix" things. Tim Allen's popular sitcom was written neither for me, nor about me. Where home repairs are concerned, I am colossally unhandy. I can do any job that requires a strong back and steady legs. Wall washing and garden spading are my forte.  I am less adept at any job that requires the connection of a keen mind with nimble fingers. As fingers go, my ten have never worked in close harmony with one another.

When I helped build a church in Costa Rica, I noticed that our crew was divided into two classifications of workers. There were people who walked around with pencils behind their ears, and there were people who walked around with work gloves on their fingers. In the course of two hot, sweaty weeks, my ear never felt a pencil. But my fingers were seldom, if ever, ungloved. My job was cement.... mixing it.... by hand.... all day. I was good at it. Largely, because I had the back for it. 

Male pride being what it is, it is hard to admit my unhandiness to you. Most men would like to have their friends believe they can fix anything. I am no exception.  Except that, I can't.  Never could.   This is why I have this marvelous idea for a repair shop, run the way the Catholic Church used to run the confessional. Upon entering a big, dark building that looks like a church, I select a small booth, bisected by a privacy screen so that nobody can see who I am. Meanwhile, somebody like Mitch Middleton sits (in priestly garb) on the other side of the screen. I tell him that my toaster is dead and that I am confessing to the sin of being unable to fix it. Then I slip Mitch a $20 bill which he promptly deposits in his clerical apron. Once my penance is paid, Mitch absolves me of my stupidity by saying something like: "That's okay, a man of your stature and calling surely has more important things to do."   And for the same twenty bucks, he also fixes my toaster.

All of this is a prelude to telling you that there is one skill I have recently mastered. I have learned how to operate a chain saw. My first lesson involved some old railroad ties in my planter boxes in Farmington Hills. Real railroad ties. Monster ties. Black ties, soaked in creosote. Not those wimpy ties sold by landscapers today. At any rate, they were rotting and needed replacing. Everybody said so. Kris said so. But it was my friend Al Green who showed me how to cut up the old ties into manageable pieces with his chain saw. After a couple quick lessons, I made toothpicks out of those babies. I also covered myself, beyond recognition, with alternating layers of sawdust and creosote.

Having mastered railroad ties, I decided to fell a forest, or at least 8 large trees from a forest that fell on my Elk Rapids property during a mini-tornado. This time it took a full day. But, when day was done, my personal enjoyment was every bit equal to the results achieved.  

I like chain saws. While not quite ready for movies featuring massacres committed thereby, I nonetheless enjoy what such a chain saw can do and how I feel while using one. I like the noise, the surge, and the raw power of it all. I like the speed with which things can be cut up and through. A man with a chain saw is a man on the way to accomplishing something. A man with a chain saw is a man on his way to making a mark. A man with a chain saw is a man not to be messed with. So much of my life is spent working gingerly, carefully and subtlety, so as to achieve my goals without offending my constituency. Obstacles in the ministry often have to be met by nibbling away at the edges or by coming at them via the back door. By contrast, a chain saw seems remarkably direct. O, if I could only get one for Christmas. I could:

·         Slash through bureaucratic red tape

·         Whack away at institutional underbrush

·         Cut the legs out from under my opposition

·         Clear paths, open logjams, trim dead wood

·         Level mountains, exalt valleys, make rough places plain, crooked places straight, and prepare a proper highway for our God.

Lest you wonder about my sudden switch from contemporary to biblical imagery, let me be so bold as to suggest that, for several hundred years before the birth of Jesus, the Jews were also looking for a chain saw for Christmas.... in the person of a Messiah who would cut a mighty swath through the obstacles, the opposition, and the oppressors of the day. Jews, throughout much of their history, did not have it easy. Therefore, one popular image pictured a Messiah who would be as hard on the opposition as the opposition had been hard on them.

That is why biblical messianic prophecy (in passages we never quite get around to quoting in Advent) is rich with images of an avenging Messiah who will "dash in pieces, princes and nations," and break those who oppose God's will "with a rod of iron."

This is power language, for which the chain saw is not an inappropriate image. What's more, even the gospels are not entirely sure that they want to let such language go. Here and there, little pieces of narrative slip through, indicating that some gospel writers were not completely comfortable with the weakness of Jesus. It has often been suggested that both Matthew and John are concerned to depict Jesus as someone who could have operated in chain-saw-like-fashion, had he chosen to. A few moments ago, we heard Matthew's account of the arrest in the garden of Gethsemane. You remember how it goes. Someone comes to Jesus' defense, brandishes a sword, and slices off the ear of a soldier. Jesus tells the man to re-sheath his weapon, adding that those who take up swords will just as surely perish by them. Then Matthew (alone) has Jesus say: "Don't you think that (if I wanted to) I could put out the call, and twelve legions of angels would immediately appear to kick the living bejeebers out of these who have come to arrest me?" Although I have taken some liberties with the translation, I have also taken the time to read seven commentaries on that specific verse. Each of them suggests that it probably reflects a view in the early church that couldn't bear to see Jesus crucified because of weakness in the face of opposition.

Jesus, of course, did not get 12 legions of angels in the garden that night. And the Jews did not get a chain saw for Christmas. They got a baby instead. Which was why this whole business about stables and cradles (lovely as it was) had to offend more than a few of them.

And it's not as if the Jews were totally wrong in their desires. Power is not necessarily a bad thing. I know I'd rather have more of it than less of it. And what little I have, I'd just as soon not give up. What's more, I could make a pretty good list of people I'd like to get more power into the hands of. Had I been alive 2000 years ago, that list would have certainly been headed by Jesus.  So had I received word (while stargazing in the Orient) that a baby in some faraway stable was God's anointed Messiah (and that I ought to go see him and bring along a gift of sorts), I might have skipped over gold, frankincense, myrrh, or some dumb drum song, and headed off to Sears of Judea to buy the kid a chain saw. I have always figured that you can't go too far wrong if you can get the right tool into the right hands to accomplish the right ends.

Here you are....sweet Mary's baby. This may not make any sense to you now, but it may   come in handy when you grow up.

Power has its uses. When connected to the world of ideas and ideals (writes Bart Giamatti), power can be a marvelous force for public good.

Power is not to be sneezed at in a world where powerlessness is both real and frustrating. A couple of years ago, the power went out of our electrical circuits for six days. For the first couple of days, we had a good time playing pioneer. Then we got testy. By the end of the week, it began to feel like the end of the world. And we knew that power was coming back on. What happens if you lose it and you don't know that? That happens to people every day. People lose power over their life.... their health.... their family.... and their future. They can't make happen what needs to happen. And they can't stop from happening, the things that ought not to happen.

Or what if they hunt and sniff, scratch and claw, and finally get to the place where power is supposed to be, only to find that it isn't?  John F. Kennedy was famous for saying that the most surprising thing about the presidency was his discovery of how little he could do in the office, once he actually got elected to it. On a lesser scale, the same thing happens in churches. I have seen people wander through the committee structure of the United Methodist Church, always wondering when they are going to get elected to the committee ''where the important stuff happens."

Power is elusive (meaning slippery, hard to find, and harder still to hang on to). That's what the world says. But power is also illusive (meaning that it's not everything it's cracked up to be, and can't do everything people think it can do). That's what the Bible says.

First, power can be incredibly seductive. That's why Jesus rejected it in the wilderness, saying: "Don't tempt me with it."

Second, power can be incredibly frightening. When you finally get power in your hands, and it comes time to exercise it, it is not unusual to find those same hands turning to jelly. In such moments, were someone to come along and offer to take power out of your hands, would you willingly give it up? Consider the person who is entrusted with the power to make decisions about another individual's medical care. Surgery or no? Heroic measures or no? Feeding tubes.... ventilators.... defibrillators.... code blues.... or no? Tell me how easy it is to exercise that power.

Or consider Pastor-Parish Relations Committees in local churches. Most of the people serving on that committee welcome the chance to be there. In my 29 years of ministry, nobody has ever turned down an invitation to serve on the PPR Committee. That's because the PPR Committee is considered to be a "power committee" whose members are privy to all kinds of "inside stuff." Then comes a tough decision. Shall we employ this one or that one? Shall we re-evaluate this one or that one? Shall we terminate this one or that one? Suddenly, nine stomachs rumble in unison, as each member wonders why in the world he or she ever said "yes" to this job.

Power tempts. Power frightens. And the third part of the equation is that power fails. The ultimate illusion is that power can always deliver the goods. It can't. Not every mountain is movable by force. Parents know that better than anybody else. When your kids are little, you can tell them to do something and they will generally do it. They may whine.... complain.... forget.... procrastinate.... but they generally do it. But one day you tell them to do something and they say: "You can't make me." Which (of course) is wrong.... for the time being. You can make them. And you do make them. But even in that moment of parental triumph, you know that your power to extract compliance is coming to an end. The day will come when you won't be able to make them to do something if they don't really want to do it. You can ground them.... deny them.... curse them.... some even hit them. But if they set their resistance against you, you won't be able to break it.

Fortunately, few homes get to that point. But if and when they do, there is no way that a raw exercise of power will correct the situation. Parents who have never been in that situation can't understand that. They say things like: "If my kids ever said that to me, I'd show them who is the boss." But until you've faced that situation, you don't realize that there are limits to what you can do as "boss".... limits to what you can do with authority.... limits to what you can do with physical strength.... and limits to what you can do with allowances, privileges and car keys. You name the issue. If a kid wants to resist you, that kid is going to resist you.... even if it means not doing what you said "do".... doing what you said "don't".... going where you said "stay away from".... or walking out the door when you said "you're in for the night."

That doesn't mean that parents should be wishy-washy. There is much to be said for firmness. There is much to be said for taking authority. There is much to be said for holding one's ground. But it may not win the day. Or it may win the day in a way that causes the win to feel like a loss. You can't make anybody do anything, really. Which, I suppose, was (and continues to be) God's problem, leading to a search (as the scriptures suggest) for a more excellent way. A few weeks ago, a good friend got me a copy of Terry Anderson's memoirs, "Den of Lions."  Anderson, as you will remember, was one of a small contingent of Americans who (as the result of a rather brutal exercise of power) were held hostages in and around Beirut. Their names became legendary: Reed.... Sutherland.... Pollhill.... Weir.... Anderson.... Steen.... Cicipplo.

In time, freedom came to each. And with it, light.  And with light, the beginnings of something else. Father Lawrence Jenco, one of the earlier releases, recalled the day of his departure from Lebanon. A young guard approached him, saying: 'Will you forgive me for keeping you six months in isolation?" To which Father Jenco responded: "If you will forgive me for hating you every minute of that time."

Then Jenco added: "After that, there was a peace between us. Call it the Stockholm Syndrome if you want. All I know is that there was love in the end."

My friends, if it does nothing else, Christmas comes (just in the nick of time for some of us) to remind us that there was love in the beginning, too.

The Two Faces of Advent 12/12/1993

Dr. William A. Ritter 

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Isaiah 40:1-5

If you were among the several hundred to pass through the parsonage last weekend, you know that my wife does not lack for things with which to decorate a house at Christmas. And among the Christmassy things scattered here, there and about, were a large number of pictures featuring Santa Claus and my now-grown children. Many of those pictures were unearthed and framed just for the occasion. If memory serves me correct, a few of those pictures were obtained because we, as parents, either pleaded ("just one more year and you'll never have to do it again"), threatened ("you will comb your hair; you will not make faces at the camera"), or bribed ("once the picture is taken, we will all go to lunch anyplace you like").

When Karen Plants saw some of the pictures of young Bill, she hatched a plan to borrow them for future display at the Contemporary Singles Class, whose members know my son only as a 26 year old attorney in a suit. But the best Santa picture was not available to be seen, that's because the best Santa picture was never even taken. That was the year that Julie (as a Harrison High School sophomore) was encouraged to sit on Santa's lap by her friends, and was (in turn) pinched gently on the thigh by the Harrison High School senior (who was sitting in for the real Mr. Claus at one of our area malls, and who secretly desired.... and ultimately obtained.... a date with my daughter).

All of those pictures, and all of those stories, are now part of the Ritter family Christmas lore. And, none of us would have it any other way. Both kids agreed to having the pictures displayed, even the "weird" ones.... especially the "weird" ones. Which surprised me. But which also pleased me, given that both of them are now old enough (and secure enough in their present lives) to feel good about the more unusual elements of their past.

For if the truth be known, there is no season of the year which finds us dragging more of our past behind us, than does the Christmas season. Hopefully, much that we drag is pleasant. We drag decorations and pictures. We drag menus and culinary traditions. We drag family rituals and patterned ways of doing things. And the trail of things dragged becomes longer and weightier with each passing year. Just try dropping a Christmas tradition and see what happens: ("No cookies this year? But Mom, you always bake cookies for Christmas"). Quickly one tradition becomes two.... and two become ten.... to the point that "twelve days of Christmas" is not so much a song as a necessity (and, even at that, may not be enough time in which to get everything in).

But if the sum total of things remembered is what makes the season of Christmas, it is also the sheer weight of things remembered which thwarts the season of Advent. In the very first line of my "Steeple Notes" notes, I dared to suggest that Advent is probably the most unsuccessful liturgical fragment of the Church year.... a suggestion which may have surprised the majority of you, even as it shocked the liturgical purists among you. But look at it this way.

Advent is, in the liturgy of the church, a time of watchful waiting.... of heightened anticipation.... of cultivated expectancy.... of preparing for something that, should it come, would make everything that has come before, pale in comparison.

But in reality, Advent is not nearly so much a time of looking forward, as it is a season of looking back.... having far less to do with anticipation than it does with nostalgia. We begin the Advent season with Charles Wesley's lovely carol, "Come, thou long expected Jesus," even though we know that the real sentiment of the season is better captured by the one who croons that "there's no place like home for the holidays."

What more fitting Advent scripture could there be than the one just read, namely Isaiah's promise that "a highway shall be made straight in the desert for our God." But even were that highway built and subsequently traveled by the motorcade of the Almighty, few of us would be out in the desert to see it, having chosen (instead) to celebrate the end of December by wending our way down Memory Lane, or seeking out that never-to-be-forgotten trail that meanders over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house. Unless, of course, grandmother has long since moved to a condo in south Florida.... in which case Memory Lane and southbound 1-75 become (temporarily) one and the same road.

With the best of intentions, we try to work up a mood of breathless expectation each December, only to find our minds drifting to the question of whether it really did snow every Christmas Eve when we were young. The net result of such nostalgia is that Advent is not so much something we celebrate, as it becomes something we rehearse. Will we remember it right? Will we remember it all? And will we be able to enact everything exactly as we remember it? The effort can become, in the extreme, more than a little confining.

Some twenty or more years ago (at a Christmas dinner prepared by my mother), both drumsticks were removed from the turkey platter, by others dining at the table, before the platter had quite come around to me. Without thinking, my mother said: "Oh! One of those drumsticks is for Bill (meaning me). Bill always eats the drumstick of the turkey at Christmas." Which may or may not have been true. And I hasten to add that it hasn't been true for years (meaning that should you invite me for dinner and plan to serve turkey, you need not fear that I will occupy myself through the meal by gnawing on the turkey leg). Even back then, there was absolutely nothing of consequence riding on whether I did (or did not) eat the drumstick. But my mother feared there might be (although whether that fear was for me or for her, I really don't know). All told, it was a minor blip on the radar screen of Christmas. It quickly passed, and nothing more was said. But, in some families, it might have caused the screen (and the season) to short circuit altogether.

I have found it to be true that when a young couple gets married, the odds are high that their first major argument will take place at Christmas time. For when Johnny marries Mary, Johnny brings an entire set of Christmas rituals from his family (his culture and his church), even as Mary brings an equally powerful set of her own. Even in the first year, such things become hard to mix and match. The problem is more often skirted than solved. Johnny and Mary end up keeping everything of both sides, accommodating everybody from both sides. Which works.... sort of.... until they have a child. Or two. Or three. How interesting it is that we celebrate a season where Christ's appearance in the human family changes absolutely everything, by expecting that those who marry into the nuclear family will change absolutely nothing.

But, then, the family of the church is not really all that different. Upon being appointed to any new church, I have always inquired as to which local Christmas customs matter most to the greatest number of people, and then vowed never to mess with them. Upon arriving at Nardin Park in 1980, I learned that there were more people worried that I would do something to "ruin" the 8:00 Christmas Eve service, than were concerned over anything else I might do. And when I finally found out what there was about the 8:00 service that I could possibly "ruin,"  it boiled down to the simple issue of maintaining as close to a condition of total darkness in the sanctuary as was practically and electrically possible. It took me three years before I truly enjoyed Christmas Eve in that church, not because I disagreed with the premise about darkness, but because I feared that somebody (well removed from my control) would do something to make it appear to those who were watching me so closely, that "since Ritter came, Christmas Eve at Nardin Park has never been the same." The ironic thing was that (during that period of finding my way), I couldn't get any two people to agree on how much dark was just the right amount of dark, and how the switches on the light board ought to be orchestrated so as to make certain that things would be as they had always been. As the scriptures record: "The true light that enlightens every man was (on that night) coming into the world." But woe be unto any preacher who beat the light of Christ to the punch by turning on too many lights of his own. Still, traditions have a way of capturing those they would initially trip.... to the degree that I find myself wanting to darken this place down.... at least a little.... come the evening of December 24.

Underneath all of this, however, is a problem that is every bit as theological as it is personal. Namely, is the coming of Christ a once-upon-a-time event, or is there the possibility of fresh-and-repeated-comings to hearts and homes that may need His appearing, look for His appearing, long for His appearing, but which (heretofore) may have done little to receive His appearing (by making measurable effort to "prepare Him room")?

I think that most of us instinctively lean toward the idea of "repeated comings." I think that the real reason for our endless rehearsing is not that (apart from such rehearsals) we will forget the lines of the story, but that (apart from such rehearsals) we will forget the central character of the story. For underneath the innumerable rituals that go into "keeping Christmas," is the fear that, were we to let go of too many too quickly, we might lose Jesus too.... along with the hope of ever finding Him again. I believe that every time we light another Advent candle against the encroaching darkness of December, we are like a family turning on a porch light.... because someone who belongs in that house has not yet come to that house.... and because we cannot sleep the sleep of the blessed until we hear Mary's donkey pull up (however late) in the carport, and hear Mary's Boy Child (at long last) turning His key in our locks. I keep thinking that we ought to fly in Tom Bodette to light the Advent Candle some year,  just so we could hear him say: "Hey Jesus, we'll leave the light on for you."

But more than that, I believe that some of us are not only lighting the light over the door, but actually going through the door in search of whatever light there may be outside.... complete with the willingness to follow it (like the Kings of old) wherever it may lead. Is it not possible that it was not idle curiosity, but spiritual desperation, that drove those ancient men of the Orient to follow that star in the first place? And how precise could that journey really have been? How many wrong turns did they take? How many arguments did they have? How many times did they come to a crossroads and find themselves flipping a coin in order to decide upon a direction? How many maps did they consult (and then have trouble refolding)? How many times did they pull into a gas station for directions.... or were they too manly to ever pull into a gas station for directions? And how many more than three may have started out with them, but gave up and went home because of weariness, indecisiveness or lack of progress. And if they really got there twelve nights late, so what? Some of us are already twelve weeks late.... twelve months late…. twelve years late.... or so incredibly late that we stopped counting, and almost stopped believing.

I haven't been here all that long (five months only seems like forever), but I've been here long enough to know that some of you are living in the midst of some pretty abnormal darkness. And I know that your personal Advent prayer could very well echo the one I saw (from my car window, some thirty years ago) spray painted in graffiti-like fashion on the wall of an abandoned warehouse in the south Bronx: "PRONTO VIENE, JESU CHRISTO".... (loose translation: "Come quickly, Lord Jesus").

Some of you probably take that to infer a dramatic "second coming," when Christ shall come again to bring an end to the kingdoms of this world. As for me, I look for less climactic and more repetitive re-appearings, when Christ shall come (over and over again) to heal and transform the kingdoms of this world.

What do I expect? Let me be biblical. I expect nothing less than that the lame shall walk, the blind shall see, those in bondage shall be released, and that the poor shall have the good news preached to them.

I expect that the hungry shall be fed, the thirsty quenched, the naked clothed, and the prisoner visited in his or her place of captivity.

I expect that swords shall be beaten into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks, and that the nations shall study war no more.... or at least a whole lot less.

I expect that the lion shall lay down with the lamb, the ox with the ass, the calf and the fatling together…. with people of color and caste taking note and following suit.

I expect that the tongue of the dumb shall sing, even as the foulest are being made clean.   I expect that when the Lord says to us moral and spiritual cripples, "do you want to be healed?", some of us will finally say "Yes," and accept His invitation to rise from our beds of self pity and walk.

I expect that the pure in heart (and, hopefully even some of the impure) shall see God.... and that the peacemakers of the world shall one day get more accolades than the warmongers.

I expect that (on some climactic day) we shall see beyond the mystery, live beyond the grave, and that no one (thanks to the amazing nature of grace) shall eternally sleep the sleep of the dead or the sleep of the damned.

But even more radical than that, I dare to expect (as age slowly overtakes me), that I shall yet see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

So haul out the holly, bake the cookies, and have yourselves a good "old fashioned" Christmas. But in the midst thereof, don't forget to keep your eye alerted to demolition work in the valley, and your ear attuned to the distant sounds of road graders in the desert.  For the glory of the Lord has been.... is now.... and is still being revealed. Which will be visible... in the flesh.

"PRONTO VIENE, JESU CHRISTO"

Even so Lord, quickly come.