Tell Me Your Story 4/14/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 1:43-51

As personal experiences go, this one didn’t happen to somebody else….it happened to me. And as remembered history goes, this didn’t happen months or years ago….it happened in the last couple of weeks. I had attended a meeting with a cluster of clergy….some wearing our uniforms, others dressed in uniforms of the opposition. But this didn’t happen during the meeting. This happened after the meeting. In fact, it happened on the way to the parking lot. Why is it, I wonder, that there is more honesty in parking lots than in churches, or even confessionals? Could it be that there is a freedom out there that does not exist in here? I mean, in a parking lot, you’ve all but left. You are half gone. With one turn of the key (which is already in your hand), you could be all gone. People will say anything when they know they can leave anytime.

All I did was ask a respected colleague how things were going. Key in hand, he confided that things weren’t going as well as he’d hoped. “How so?” I asked, knowing that just over a year ago he’d brought great gifts to a great church amidst great excitement. “Well,” he said, “things look pretty good on paper. Money’s a problem. But where isn’t money a problem? The bigger issue is that people don’t seem to be buying in.”

He went on to explain that when the ministerial change occurred, all the ministers changed…. meaning three ministers changed. Old trio out. New trio in. Which, some would argue, is a good way to do it. Clean sweep. Whole new team. Less chance for funny politics….people lining up old staff versus new staff….choosing sides….gathering allies….training armies. If and when they do a sweep-out up the street, they are going to have to buy an extra-wide broom.

And that’s what occurred in this fellow’s shop. Clean sweep. No politics. Good people out. Good people in. But when the old team went, a ton of history went with them. Not about policies. Not about practices. Not even about programs. But about people. Personal history, don’t you see. Said my friend in the parking lot: “I’ve never seen so many church people walking around saying, ‘Nobody knows my story.’”

Interesting, isn’t it, that we can communicate with incredible speed in unprecedented ways, but the only way our stories are revealed-to and shared-with each other is over time. This is because story-sharing presumes (even requires) trust….and like Rome, trust isn’t built in a day. My colleague is a good preacher….good teacher….good leader….good administrator. His people see that in him. But they have not opened themselves to him. Or to his newly-assembled team. Hence, their lament: “Nobody knows our story.”

Will that lament diminish with time? Maybe. But maybe not. A lot will depend on the quantity and quality of his pastoral encounters. Some of his people will get married. Others will get buried. Some will become dis-eased….giving them reasons to weep. Others will become eased….giving them reasons to rejoice. There will be suffering. There will be partying. And the questions are: “Will his ministry place him at their doors then? And will they let him in then?”

Not everybody who comes to church wants to know and be known. Some want to hide and be hid. Especially in larger churches. Anonymity is an option that large churches offer. And anonymity is something all of us seek some of the time, and some of us seek all of the time. So if you have come here to lay low, be my guest.

But I think it safe to say that most people, either secretly or openly, hope that somebody in this counter-cultural community we Christians call “church” will welcome them, accept them, and perchance (over time) even love them in ways that will incarnate and radiate the love of Christ. The very same people who (with abundant breath) say, “Pastor, tell me the stories of Jesus,” also say (under their breath): “But pastor, listen to mine.”

Which is a legitimate expectation, given that ours is a relationship theology. The distant God does not remain so, but comes to us where we are….lives among us as we are….starts from the premise of who we are….before calling us beyond what we are.

When I organize the gospels thematically, it seems to me that there are stories about Jesus, teachings of Jesus and encounters with Jesus. In terms of stories about Jesus, there are relatively few….most of them centered upon the night he entered the world or the afternoon he left it. As concerns the teachings of Jesus, one finds the extended Torah commentary which Matthew calls the Sermon on the Mount and Luke calls the Sermon on the Plain. But most of the other teachings grow out of encounters Jesus has with people, encounters where Jesus takes them seriously….their question seriously….their needs seriously….their doubts seriously…..and their faith seriously (especially when he can see more faith in them than they can see in themselves).

Textually, I took us back this morning to the story of Philip and Nathanael. I read it to you on Palm Sunday (but only as my auxiliary text). You remember how it goes. Philip meets Jesus. Philip buys into Jesus. Philip tries to tell Nathanael about Jesus. Nathanael discounts Philip’s testimony, given that Jesus comes from Nowheresville (“Can any good thing come out of Nowheresville, i.e. Nazareth?”).

And everybody who teaches this story stops there, because the put-down of Nazareth is so preachable. There are a million ways to sermonize the “small-town boy makes good” theme. I’ve done it. Others have done it. Peter Mitchell, President of Albion College, did it from this very pulpit on the Monday evening of Holy Week. In fact, Peter said that this little story was one of his two favorite Bible passages. Peter didn’t exactly say why. But I think I know why. You see, Peter comes from Ishpeming (which is every bit as close to Nowheresville as Nazareth is close to Nowheresville).

That’ll preach. As will Philip’s line to Nathanael: “Come and see for yourself.” That’ll preach, too. What has never preached is the truncated conversation between Nathanael and the man from Nowheresville. Jesus sees him coming and says: “Look, a genuine Israelite in whom there is no guile.”

Leading Nathanael to ask: “How did you know me?” Occasioning Jesus’ answer: “Before Philip called you, I saw you under a fig tree.”

Which impresses the daylights out of Nathanael….that Jesus looked so deeply….discerned it so quickly….and said so, so openly. I mean, think of the last time that somebody you didn’t know, knew you….as in “really” knew you. And you wondered how.

Now, it’s possible Jesus was spiritually clairvoyant. That’s one extreme. And it’s possible that somebody tipped Jesus off (“See that guy over there? That’s Nathanael. He’s good people. If he comes around, say something nice about him.”). That’s the other extreme. And it’s also possible that the fig tree is the clue. Some scholars say that a Jew sitting under a fig tree is a person of peace. Others say that a Jew sitting under a fig tree is a person of prayer. Both agree that it may be Nathanael’s location that creates his reputation.

But whatever the case, Nathanael signs up….on the spot….not because Jesus had great eyesight (“I can see all the way to the fig tree”), but because Jesus had great insight (“When I saw you, Nathanael, I knew you were the real thing.”).

Jesus knew his parishioners’ story. And I have discovered that people who work for Jesus had better mirror the same trait.

One of the things I do pretty well is preach funerals and memorial services. That’s because I tell people’s stories…..either because I remember well or because I listen good. I don’t do whitewash jobs. The dead don’t need my preaching to clean them up. God’s grace takes care of that. But I try really hard to capture (in words) not only the facts of someone’s life, but the depths of someone’s life. And I’ve been successful, to the degree that I’ve actually had people say: “I can’t wait to die to hear what you’re going to say about me.”

Now, I have colleagues who think that’s wrong. Who never do it. Who never get personal. Who believe it’s idolatry. Who think that if funerals ought to glorify anybody, they ought to glorify God. And so their funeral sermons are generic….one size fits all….insert name here….and if you don’t know you are in the right room because you recognize your relatives sitting beside you, nothing the preacher says is likely to clue you.

Wherever clergy gather, the debate rages between the “glorify God” group and the “remember Harry” group. But it’s not either/or. It’s both/and. The book on Harry is closed. Chapter finished. But the Author of Life does not necessarily drop the pen when the blood clot drops Harry. Which means that the Big Book on Harry is far from closed. For who can say what yet resides in the Author’s imagination?

At funerals, I have never failed to preach the greatness of God. Nor have I ever failed to offer the promises of God. But neither have I failed to milk the most that I could….and the best that I could….from Harry’s chapter (as he lived it, before death closed it). Because believing, as I do, that Harry matters to God, I am more than willing….and at least moderately able….to detail the ways in which Harry mattered to us.

What occasionally surprises me, however, is the number of people (some of them Harry’s dearest relatives and closest church friends) who tell me that there were things in my remembrance….in my eulogy, if you will….that they never knew and wish they had. As to whose fault that was, darned if I know. The issue is neither guilt nor blame, the issue is sadness. I find it sad that people can share the same table (year after year), or sit in the same pew (year after year), and know so little about each other. Why should I be left to tell you at death, things that you could have learned about each other in life?

While you’re pondering that, kindly permit me to close with a remembrance of a seminary professor I once knew.

A few years ago in a church in Oklahoma where I was worshiping with my family, I had an afternoon engagement and had to leave quickly. I said goodbye to them after the benediction. In order to get to the parking lot quickly, I cut through the back, through the choir room. I said to one of the women in the choir as she was putting away her robe, “I appreciated very much the anthem this morning.”

She said, “I hope so, because that’s it.”

I said, “What do you mean?”

She said, “That’s it. I’m hanging it up.” She was putting away her robe.

I said, “Are you retiring?” She’d been in the choir 103 or 104 years; I thought she was retiring.

She said, “No, I’m quitting.”

I said, “You’re quitting?”

She said, “I’m quitting.”

“Oh, you’re not quitting.”

“I’m quitting.”

“Well, why are you quitting?”

She said, "I sat up there in the choir loft this morning and looked around at the other choir members. I looked at the minister and looked at the worship leader. I looked at the ushers and then looked out over the congregation. Finally, I said to myself what has haunted me for years.”

I said, “What’s that?”

She said, “Who cares?”

Well, I was in a hurry. I had to make a speech, so I said, “Oh, you’ll be all right.” I went to the parking lot, but all the way to my engagement and all the way back I thought of that indictment. I was a member of that church at the time, and she was indicting me and all the members. In fact, if it were true, what she had said was, “This is not a church.” If her opinion after longtime membership was that the sum gesture of that church was a shrug of the shoulders, then it was not a church.

When I got home that afternoon, I called that lady. I said, “I want to talk to you.”

She said, “If you want to.”

I said, “I want to.” I went over there; we talked, and we disagreed. I finally asked her, “Well, what would we have to do to show that we cared?”

And this was her definition. She said, “Take me seriously.” Which was a strange way to put it, especially for her. She was a kind of comic, a sort of stick of peppermint; she was always playing practical jokes. She would pin the tails of choir robes together. She would go early and put some big cartoon on the pulpit so that when the minister came out in all his sobriety, he’d look down and be blown out of the water. She was that kind of person, so I said, “You can’t be serious! Take you seriously? What are you talking about? You’re always joking, laughing.”

And she said, “You bought all that? I thought it was rather transparent, myself. I like to be taken seriously.”

When I left that lady’s house, I said to her, “You’re wrong, you know.”

She said, “I’m not.”

I said, “I get to travel to churches all over the country, and everywhere I go there are people who care for each other. They take care of each other.”

She said, “Where?”

I said, “Everywhere I go, there are people who care.”

She said, “Really?”

“Yes.”

She said, “Name some.”

She wants names. May I use your name? May I give her your name?

note: The closing story comes from the collected stories of Fred Craddock, recently published by a pair of his colleagues. For more detailed discussion of “fig trees” and people who sit under them, see any reputable biblical commentary (the best being the Anchor Bible Volume on God)

Shopping for the Perfect Church 11/3/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: II Corinthians 4:1-12

Note:  This sermon was the second in a trio of sermons for the annual stewardship campaign orchestrated under the title “Don’t Let Go.” It was preached on a Sunday when the music was especially spectacular, given the presence of guest composer, conductor and concert pianist, Joseph Martin. Earlier in the service, Roger and Barbara Timm (relatively new to First Church) gave a campaign testimony and spoke about the issue of “church shopping” in their faith journey.

* * * * *

Now that Julie has left Georgia for California (albeit via Massachusetts), chances are slim that I am ever going to get back to Atlanta. Which I didn’t see enough of while she was there. Although I did once stand in the pulpit of Ebenezer Baptist Church….Daddy King’s church…. Martin’s, too (for a spell, and perhaps still). It was a Tuesday, as I remember, along about 2:00 in the afternoon. So had I felt inclined to preach, there wouldn’t have been any reason to preach, given that there was nobody in the room to hear me preach, save for Kris and Julie (who have heard all they care to hear of my preaching). So I didn’t. Although I wanted to. And still do.

Fred Craddock preached at Ebenezer a few years back. Fred teaches preaching….or did….at Emory University in Atlanta. So Joseph Roberts, Ebenezer’s pastor in those years, invited Fred to come over and bring a good word. Well, you need to know that while Fred is wonderful to hear, he is not all that imposing to see….given that, by his own admission, Fred is an old, short, bald guy with a high voice.

Which is a lot to overcome. And which may explain why, when Fred got up to preach, Joe Roberts began to sing (while seated on the platform behind the pulpit). Whereupon everybody else on the platform began to sing. And the congregation, they began singing, too. Then the piano and the organ came along for the ride, followed by the drums and the electric guitar. All the while, Fred stood waiting at the pulpit until he figured out that he was the only one who wasn’t singing. So even though there wasn’t anything in the bulletin that called for singing, he sang, too. Which got everybody going….not only singing, but swinging and clapping.

Then, after a spell, Joe Roberts put up his hand and it got real quiet. People sat down. Fred preached. And it felt as if he could have preached all day. After the service, he said to Joe Roberts: “That kind of shocked me a little….the singing, I mean. You didn’t tell me you were going to do that.” To which Joe said: “I didn’t plan to.” “Then why did you do it?” Fred asked. “Well,” said Joe, “when you stood up at the pulpit, one of the associates leaned over and said to me, ‘Looks like that boy’s gonna need some help.’”

Well, we all do from time to time (need help, I mean). Me, more than most. But, then, I get more help than most. Like this morning. Who wouldn’t be ready to preach after music like this? Preaching is easy here. I have been known to cry when I hear the choir. Nothing unique about that. There are lots of ministers who cry when they hear their choir. But, when they tell me, they’re not smiling.

“We have this treasure,” Paul says. “And we carry it in clay jars (earthen vessels).” So what’s the treasure? You tell me. On any given morning, the treasure can be just about anything.

The treasure can be the Lord.

Or the treasure can be the faith that proclaims the Lord.

Or the gospel that declares the faith that proclaims the Lord.

Or the message that articulates thegospel that declares the faith that proclaims the Lord.

Or the ministry that carries out the message that articulates the gospel that declares the faith that proclaims the Lord.

Or the anthem that puts melody under the ministry that carries out the message that articulates the gospel that declares the faith that proclaims the Lord.

Or maybe even the church in which melody, ministry, message, gospel, faith and Lord are simmered into a stew that feeds and flavors the world.

Maybe it’s all “treasure.” As treasures go, don’t try to parse it or sort it out. Just give thanks for the fact that we’ve got some (treasure, I mean) and that ours is of infinite worth and value.

So what do we do with our treasure, Paul asks. We carry the whole schmear in pots made of clay. Which everybody in Paul’s world (Jews, Greeks and Romans) knew were the most flawed containers known to man. That’s because they dried, don’t you see. And when they dried, they cracked. And when they cracked, stuff leaked from them like sieves. So what is Paul saying? I’ll tell you what Paul is saying. He’s saying that this incredible treasure (however defined) has been entrusted to a bunch of cracked pots.

Don’t look at me funny. I don’t write this stuff. I only read this stuff. But I know ‘tis true. When Paul talks about himself as the vessel, he’s talking “mortality” (meaning he’s got death in him). But when Paul talks about the church as the vessel, he’s talking “fragility” (meaning we’ve got failure in us). Which is a confession worth making in a day when people want more and more out of church and are not bashful about expressing their expectations.

As my title suggests, people shop churches. I suppose a few always did, but not many. In days gone by, the Roman Catholic model of institutional loyalty defined us all. Born a Catholic, you lived Catholic, stayed Catholic and died Catholic. What’s more, when you moved, you went to the Catholic parish that serviced your new neighborhood. Seldom did you ask the realtor: “What is the finest Catholic church in these parts?” Instead, you asked: “What is the closest Catholic church in these parts?”

Protestants may have seemed a bit more choosy, but just a bit. Methodists, in the main, paid attention to the sign on the door (even before we had the cross and flame to mark our turf). And most suburban Methodist churches grew numerically as Detroit Methodists picked up stakes and left the city in search of better schools and greener lawns. The “brand name factor” was a big factor. And even those moving Methodists who didn’t stay Methodist sampled “Methodist” before looking elsewhere.

Today, everything is changed. Brand lines are blurred and people cross them without blinking an eye. On Groundbreaking Sunday, we received 40 new adult members into the life of this church. Six of them were Methodist transferees. That’s fifteen percent. Which is about the way it is now. Not good. Not bad. Just is. In fact, were you to do the math, it would be my guess that (over the last decade) we have received more members who could tell us about the Pope than who could tell us about John Wesley.

As you gleaned from Roger and Barbara’s message this morning, most people shop churches. Which bothers most clergy. Although I don’t know why my colleagues disparage church shopping, given that they’ll do it, too, the minute they retire. As Rodger Nishioka writes (in a wonderful essay entitled “Life in the Liquid Church: Ministry in a Consumer Culture”):

Shopping is the archetype of our age. If, by shopping, we mean scanning the assortment of possibilities….examining, touching and handling the goods on display….comparing the costs with the contents of our wallets or the credit limits on our cards….putting each item in our cart or back on the shelf….then we probably shop outside stores as much as inside….meaning that we shop everywhere.

But for what? As concerns shopping for churches, here’s where it gets foggy. Nishioka continues: “When it comes to churches, the shift in consumerism involves less of a shopping for needs and more of a shopping for desires….and, as such, is more volatile, ephemeral, even capricious.” Which is hard to explain, but I have seen it. People tell me that they started out to shop widely for a church, only to come here first and never leave. Why? “Because it felt right,” they say. It touched something. Or it satisfied an impulse they couldn’t articulate or a need they couldn’t name. Or maybe they shopped the landscape, came here, and then said: “This is it” (with the same vagueness of criteria). It wasn’t so much that they came shopping with a list, as with a lust….or an itch….or a hunger….or an attitude that said: “I’ll know it when I feel it” (rather than “I’ll know it when I evaluate it”).

The question is, how does one prepare for that (especially if you’re me….or the staff….or the Board)? It’s like trying to pitch a baseball with only a vague notion of the strike zone. So you go back to what other experts have been saying for 20 years. Namely, that people who no longer concern themselves with the name on the door, will join the church that

1. helps them make sense of….and find meaning for….their lives (and)
2. tells them in visible and tangible ways: “We will help you raise your children.”

Which suggests that meaninglessness and parenting are the two issues that produce more anxiety than any others. And which further suggests that any church…by any name….in any place….which addresses those needs will find a following.

Ah, but there is an additional expectation that shoppers bring to the table. I am talking about an expectation of excellence. Which is why the word “perfect” crept into my title this morning (“Shopping for the Perfect Church”). Back when five-year-old Julie was learning how to string words together in sentences (she’s brilliant at it now), she would awkwardly pair the words “more” and “better,” as in “This is more better” or “Which would be more better?” Today, the words aren’t paired in speech, but they are coupled in expectation. From their church of choice, people want “more” and they want “better.” Heck, if the shoe fits, wear it. As a church, you want “more” and you also want “better.” At every church I have served….and in every year of my ministry….the performance expectation has risen. And if you don’t believe that, ask anyone who works here and has accumulated enough career history from which to form a comparison.

Which is why we work at “perfection” in things small and large. This building is cleaner than it has ever been before. Our communication is more far-reaching than it has ever been before. Your weekly edition of Steeple Notes (which we turn over in about eight hours time) is better written and more mistake-free than it has ever been before. And the staff is bigger than it has been before, stretches you more broadly than you have been stretched before, and drives some of you deeper into the faith than you have been driven before. Truth be told, you don’t work here very long (or very happily) if you can’t pair the words “my ministry” and “next level” in the same sentence. Not because I demand it. But because you desire it….because the times cry out for it….and (here’s the important part) because God deserves it. If you don’t believe that, go back and reread the parable of the talents. As you will recall, the servant who puts his ten talents to work with visible outcomes is given ten more, while the servant who sticks his one talent in a box (or hides it under a bushel) ends up with nothing. It doesn’t seem fair. But that’s the way it is.

On even-numbered days of the week, I get to feeling guilty and think that maybe we should dismantle some of our staff, reallocate some of our resources, and back-burner the building, the organ project and the concert series, the better to help ten or twenty small, struggling churches keep their doors open for two or three years longer. But, then, on the odd-numbered days of the week, I realize we are not only doing that all over the globe, but that there’s nothing inherently wonderful about keeping some struggling church’s doors open….unless there are people coming in those doors who are getting something, or going out those doors to do something (for Christ and the Kingdom). In other words, if nothing’s happening, why sweat the doors?

My friends, I don’t know how you got here. Nor do I know why you stay here. This is not a perfect church. If it were, I’d only screw it up….given that I’m not a perfect pastor. So what are we? We’re a cracked pot church with a priceless treasure. And we’re doing what we can to contain it, carry it and continue it. So carry what you can of it. And don’t let go of it (flawed and fragile though you may be).

There was once a bent and crippled servant who served as a water carrier for the king. Every day he carried his empty bucket down the hill to the well. And every day he carried his full bucket up the hill to the castle. But because of his misshapen frame, he tilted (to one side). Meaning that water spilled over the edge (to one side). Upon arriving at the castle, his bucket was always half empty, owing to the spillage. One day his conscience got the better of him. So he confessed his inadequacy to the king and offered to resign. Which was when the king wisely walked him back down the hill, pointing out to him something he had never seen before….the flowers that were growing on but one side of the path (the side of the path where he spilled when he tilted).

Friends, we are such imperfect vessels. But we have left our share of flowers along the way.

Provisional Pessimism, Ultimate Optimism 9/15/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 16:25-33

Let’s start right out with the text. Let’s not dance around it, tiptoe into it, or build an anecdote-laden foundation under it. Jesus said it. All I am doing is repeating it.

            In the world you will have tribulation

            But be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.

If you trust the chronology of the gospel of John (and I see no reason not to), those were the last words Jesus spoke to his disciples, at the last supper of his life, on the last night of his life.

            In the world you will have tribulation.

            But be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.

* * * * * *

In the Greek Orthodox Church, when a child is baptized….and by “child,” I mean a real infant (literally, still damp)….after the baptism has been performed, the priest takes the large pectoral cross that is suspended on a chain from his neck and forcibly strikes the child on its chest. The blow is so hard that it leaves a mark….so hard that it hurts the child….and so hard that the child screams. Here we give the baptismal family a rose. There, they give the child a whack. What gives?

I’ll explain what gives. The symbolism of our Orthodox friends is clear. They are suggesting that any child baptized into Christ must bear the cross….and the cross is not a sign of ease, victory, prosperity or success, but a sign of sorrow, pain and even death.

Like those Greek Orthodox babies, we Christians should not be surprised when trial and tribulation bubble up in the normal ebb and flow of life’s river. Nor should we be seduced by phony versions of the Christian faith which suggest that once we have it (by baptism, confirmation or conversion), we are immune to trouble. “In this world you will have tribulation.” Yes, you. Not just those people who aren’t here this morning, because they couldn’t get up this morning, because they stayed awake into the wee, small hours of the morning sinning the night away. Yes, they will have tribulation also. Maybe sooner. Maybe deeper. But none of us has been dealt a “get out of tribulation free” card. None of us.

Which reality we rehearsed in the September 11 service which packed this place out last Wednesday. There was a lot of healing in that hour. But there was a lot of pain, too. Of all the things that were said (and mark my words, there were a lot of wonderful things said….and sung….and played on the cello), I was most powerfully affected by Jeff Nelson’s introductory remarks to his reading of scripture. Jeff Nelson is our 15-hour-per-week intern. He’s here for the year. He’s got a little longer to go in seminary. But his schedule allows him to live in Detroit (down around Military and Livernois), work here, take classes both here and in Illinois, and somehow manage to avoid becoming schizoid in the process.

Said Jeff (last Wednesday):

Last year was the hardest year of my life. No sooner had I cemented my call to ministry and commenced training for it full time, but the towers came down, the Market came down, the priesthood came down, the fragile accords in the Middle East came down, and a slew of little kids (now numbering two dozen and counting) began being shot down in the city that I love and on the streets where I live. Last year tried my faith, tested my calling and shook my soul.

I understand that. I’ve got 38 years on Jeff (vocationally speaking). I’ve not only heard Jesus say, “In this world you will have tribulation,” I have tasted tribulation, both from my plate and from yours. You didn’t know I ate from your plate, did you? But I do. And Jeff will, too, once we teach him that tasting tribulation from the plates of his parishioners is one of the inside secrets of ministry.

In searching for an image to characterize the year we’ve been through, I allowed a college preacher from Dover, Delaware (Susan Olson, I think they call her) to take me to the amusement park. Now you need to know that I am not big on amusement parks, given that I no longer do “high,” nor do I any longer do “fast.” But I’m not a total wuss. I still do a few scary things. I do flume rides, runaway mine cars and the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad at Disney World. And I still do the Rotor. Do they still have the Rotor? I hope so. Because it is so theologically descriptive, don’t you see.

The Rotor works on the principle of centrifugal force. It’s like a circular barrel. You ride it standing up with your back pressed against the barrel wall. Then it starts spinning….slowly at first….then faster and faster, until all that passes before your eyes becomes a blur. And the increasing speed of the rotation forces you against the wall….pins you against the wall, really. Which is a very good thing (being pinned against the wall, I mean). Because the floor drops away, leaving your feet with nothing to rest on but air.

So you can see how the Rotor becomes a mirror of real life. There you are, on the ride of your life, and suddenly the floor falls out. Things on which you stood with confidence suddenly aren’t there.

Of all the sermons preached on the Sunday after September 11 last year, every other one I read (and I read an entire book of them) quoted Psalm 46. That’s the psalm that begins: “God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in time of trouble.” But note what the psalmist says next. He says that we will not fear, though the mountains tremble and shake. Now I’ve got to tell you, I’m not Carl Price. And I haven’t done a ton of mountains. But if I were walking on a mountain and it began to “tremble and shake,” I would suffer a crisis of confidence. I would suddenly find myself wondering: “Why is there nothing firm where my soles once rested….or where my soul once rested?”

            In this world you will have tribulation.

But be of good cheer, Jesus said. In some of the more recent translations, the sentence reads: “Be of good courage.” Actually, either word is supportable. Some prefer “courage” to “cheer,” given that it sounds a bit less frivolous. But for the sake of the sermon, I’d just as soon stick with “cheer.” “Be of good cheer,” Jesus said, “for I have overcome the world.” Which is, on the face of it, an incredible promise. But the promise was kept, don’t you see….at least initially. For the very people to whom it was given faced tribulation, yet found cheer….and (over time) demonstrated courage. I’m talking about the disciples, don’t you see, following the death of Jesus.

For the promise was made to a group….not to a solitary individual. And I have got to believe that’s how Jesus intended them to receive it….collectively. The Christian hope has always been a “we shall overcome” kind of thing more than an “I shall overcome” kind of thing. We do Christianity a disservice when we over-individualize it. We are in this together.

Barb Plants told me a story the other day about Mother Teresa in heaven, shortly after her arrival. Came suppertime of day one and God gave Teresa two slices of bread and a can of tuna fish. Which she converted into a sandwich. And which was tasty enough and filling. Except on a video screen depicting life in the other place, Teresa could see people dining on platters of shrimp and lobster, with a couple of crab cakes thrown in for good measure.

Suppertime of day two, God again supplied Teresa with a can of Star-Kist and a couple slices of sourdough. But the video transmission from the other place showed a choice that evening between brisket and bouillabaisse. Still, Teresa ate without complaint. But when suppertime of day three produced more tuna fish for Teresa, but turkey and dressing for the residents of the other place, Teresa inquired of God (ever so gently, mind you) as to why it was sandwiches up here and smorgasbord down there. To which God answered: “Really, Teresa, you want I should mess up the kitchen for just two?”

The irony of that story is not that it depicts Teresa eating so poorly, but so singularly. As if the favored were really quite few. And as if earlier loyalists had forsaken and fled.

Elijah, feeling more than a little sorry for himself as God’s mouthpiece in a society that had gone to hell in a handbasket, tells God: “Look, I’m pretty much the only good guy you’ve got left. Everybody else has sold out and is worshiping your rival.” To which God says: “What are you talking about? Come out of that cave in which you’re moping and look around. When you do, you’ll see seven thousand….count ‘em….who haven’t so much as even bent a knee to Baal.”

My friends, the crisis of our time has produced both terrible pain and terrific people. And without the example and encouragement of the latter, we would have long since been done in by the former. That has been so well documented, and so widely experienced, that I need only mention it in passing. But just in case you’re moping around in some cave, or subsisting on a daily diet of tuna fish at a table for one, look beyond you and see the incredible things that God is doing with others around you….which should most certainly cheer you….that is, if you let it.

But the promise of Jesus is more than that. Much more than that.

            Be of good cheer, for I have overcome the world.

So what does that mean….especially in a world that is teeming with tribulation?

Well, for the Christian, it means that September 11th was not the day that changed the world. Let me say that again. September 11th was not the day that changed the world. So when was the day that changed the world? Well, it was late in the spring of 29 or 30 AD….meaning that each and every disaster has to be evaluated in the light of the first and only Easter. To be sure, says Stan Hauerwas, this is easier said than done. But I think it will make sense to you if I set it in the context of something with which many of you are familiar.

I am not a very good historian. And I am a terrible military historian. But military historians tell me that in every war there is a battle that decisively determines the outcome of the war. It’s not necessarily the battle that ends the war. It’s just the battle that tells you who is going to prevail when the war ends.

In the Civil War, that battle was Gettysburg. In the Napoleonic wars, that battle was Waterloo. In World War II, it was D-Day….the day in which the Allies landed on the beaches of Normandy. Everybody knew that if the Allies were driven back into the sea, it could have been over for us. However, the Nazis knew that if the beach were taken and held, it would likely be over for them. So much so that, when we established the beachhead, Rommel joined in a subversive plot to assassinate Hitler because he knew that the Nazis could not win, and he knew that Hitler would never give up.

So the Normandy invasion….D-Day….was the decisive battle. But it must be pointed out that more people died in Europe between D-Day and V-Day, than before D-Day. After Normandy, the outcome of the war in Europe was never in doubt. But there was still terrible suffering, much death and great agony to be experienced.

While I do not fully understand all the implications of what I am about to say, I believe that in the ongoing struggle with evil….and I mean the evil that is an inside job every bit as much as the evil that is an outside job….the decisive battle has already been fought and won in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. One of the reasons I don’t believe in Armageddon is because I believe the tide has already turned and the outcome is certain. As I said one year ago today, I believe in the final triumph of righteousness. So waste not even one more box of Kleenex on the Almighty. God has the will to win. And God will win. As Paul said to the Philippians (1:6), “The one who began a good work in you will complete it.”

A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across….or was led to….one of the most succinctly marvelous definitions of Christianity I have ever encountered. It was a favorite aphorism of one Georges Tyrell, a famous Catholic modernist from the first third of the 20th century. Listen to what Father Tyrell said:

            Christianity is an ultimate optimism founded on a provisional pessimism.

Which is simply another way of saying:

            In this world you will have tribulation.

            But be of good cheer, for I have overcome the world.

Note:  This morning’s sermon constitutes a reprise, one year later, of my post-September 11, 2001 sermon entitled “I Believe in the Final Triumph of Righteousness.” In preparing this material, I had the advantage of reading several sermons preached in response to September 11, one year ago. They are collected and available in a book by William Willimon entitled The Sunday After Tuesday: College Pulpits Respond to 9/11. Specific help was gleaned from Peter Gomes, Stan Hauerwas, Susan Olson and Tony Campolo. The quote of Georges Tyrell, reflected in the title, comes from Peter Gomes.

On the Cost of Raising Children 5/12/2002

William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Matthew 7:7-11, 18:15-17, 17:1-4

In case you missed it, let me report a story carried in the Sunday Styles section of the New York Times (dated January 20, 2002) under the titillating headline: “Can a Kid Squeeze By on $320,000 a Month?” The story, under the byline of Alex Kuczinski, began:

            The tale of Lisa Bonder Kerkorian, the 36-year-old former tennis pro who is demanding $320,000 a month in child support from her former husband (the 84-year-old billionaire Kirk Kerkorian), has caused a stir among hard-working Americans.

As well it might. Among the things desired for the three-year-old child of their union is $14,000 per month for parties and play dates, along with:

$5,900 for eating out. $4,300 for eating in. $2,500 for movies and other outings. $7,000 for charitable donations. $1,400 for laundry and cleaning. $1,000 for toys, books and videos. $436 for the care of the child’s bunny rabbit and other pets. And $144,000 for travel on private jets.

In her court papers, Mrs. Kerkorian said of her former husband: “Money was never a limitation or a consideration whenever Kirk wanted to construct, acquire, own, charter, hire or pay for such things as homes, airplanes, yachts, hotels, cars, staff or entertainment. Essentially, whatever Kirk wanted, Kirk got.”

But after reconsidering the size of her demands, Mrs. Kerkorian determined that she hadn’t asked for enough. “We forgot the category for major yacht charters,” she said. The story generated hefty correspondence in the press, including a number of comparisons to Marie Antoinette, whose idea of the good life cost both herself and her unfortunate husband, Louis XVI, their heads.

I don’t know what you think of that. To me, $320,000 a month for one child seems a tad excessive. I know I could raise the kid for less. So could you. Quite a bit less. But I can visualize a mother in what they call the “Third World” somewhere who might look at our per-child monthly expenditure and be equally blown away. Once you get beyond mere survival, the distinctions between necessities and luxuries vary from place to place and people to people. We could get a pretty good argument going about how much is too much….meaning that the jury is still out when it comes to definitions of the word “excessive.” But there isn’t one of us who wouldn’t rally around the notion that kids are expensive….and becoming more so, all the time.

In earlier eras, large families were an economic asset. More kids meant more hands in the field….more hands in the barn….more hands in the shop….more hands supporting the elders in their years of decline. Kids were cheap labor early and social security late.

But it has been a long time since I have seen a family business that ran on the backs of the kids. And, in that instance, it wasn’t a farm but a laundry. Two adults….five kids….and every one of them knew how to wash shirts, starch shirts, press shirts, fold shirts, box shirts and make shirt runs in the truck. Dad figured that “shirts would carry this family forever.” But I buried him one month and the kids buried the business the next.

Some of you, knowing that our daughter is going to walk out of Harvard Business School in a couple of weeks with a master’s degree, have said to Kris or myself: “There’s your retirement plan.” Which we laugh about. And which she laughs about. But it isn’t how we planned it. And it isn’t why she did it. All I know is that it took a lot of money to get us to this point (more money than it took to get her mother and father to a similar point). Not only because costs went up. But because expectations did, too. Along with our ability to pay. We had more. So we spent more. That’s simply the way it was. And still is.

People with big families do acknowledge that the cost per child goes down (ever so slightly) as the combined number of children goes up. This is due to that great ecological phenomenon known as recycling. Kids hate this, of course (“Why do I have to wear my brother’s pants out to pedal my sister’s bike?”). Moreover, some colleges will cut you a deal if you are paying for two or more at the same time. And there could be even more cost savings if only parents wouldn’t insist on purchasing things children would gladly do without….like well-balanced meals, haircuts, sets of encyclopedias and violin lessons.

How much is too much? Darned if I know. The Bible doesn’t make me an expert on everything. That’s why we have parenting classes here at First Church (to collectively and faithfully figure such stuff out). The Bible teaches that self-denial is good….that self-discipline is good….that charity ought to be taught early….and that delayed gratifications are often the sweetest gratifications. But it doesn’t say any of these things in a section labeled “Money and Kids – Ten Sure-Fire Suggestions.” No, you’ve got to do some foraging, cutting and pasting to assemble what I just said.

I think all of us wrestle mightily with the phrase “holding the line” when it comes to our kids. But there isn’t one of us who didn’t buy something at least once at the checkout line, for no other reason than to shut the kid up. And we knew the Pandora’s’ Box we were opening, even as we did it. But, at that moment, a bribe for peace and quiet was a bribe we were willing to pay. And if we weren’t, the kid’s grandparents were.

Frankly, I do not know where “giving our children every advantage” ends and “spoiling them” begins. If I could put a number on it, all of you would disagree with it. But half of you would say it was too high, while the other half of you would say it was too low.

And we all have our priorities. Kris and I were pretty thrifty….maybe even chintzy….when it came to cars for kids or trips for kids (unless the trips were taken with us and the kids). But when it came to tuition for kids, we never once looked at a bottom line and allowed it to influence a decision. But that’s us….who we are….how we operate….what we value. Which is really the only piece of advice I have on this matter. Namely, that in raising kids, you balance your checkbook twice….with the bank….and with your values.

So, are kids worth all the money it takes to raise them? Let’s face it. Not to everybody. This is the beginning of wedding season. Everybody I marry is older now….has gone together longer now….is almost always un-pregnant (at the time of the wedding) now….and highly unlikely (by their own admission) to do any serious thinking about starting a family now.

“We’re going to wait for children,” is what they say. So what are they waiting for? Two things, I think. One of which they do say. The other of which they do not say. The thing they don’t say is that they’re waiting to make sure they can make it together. Increasingly, their parents can’t. A lot of their friends can’t. And whole big chunks of the culture can’t. Stay together, I mean. So they want to make sure they can….before turning two into three, three into four, or four into more.

The thing they do say is: “We want to wait for children until we can afford them.” Which may mean: “Until we can live as well on one income as we presently live on two.” Which may mean: “Until we can give our kids everything we received (and took for granted) from our parents.” But which often means: “Until we get all the things we want, and which we may have to delay….or even go without….if we have children before we get them.” Which I would submit is a spiritual problem rather than economic one. Although I can’t prove it.

But were we to ask whether kids are worth the money in the presence of anyone who has ever lost a child (like the mothers of the murdered ones we read about yesterday in Detroit), I suspect they’d say (to a person): “I’d pay anything….spend anything….give anything….if only there were some place that would take my check.” Economically, that makes no sense. One child less, they should be better off….right? You know the answer to that as well as I do.

Where is all this going? Down a long, slow road from economics to theology….that’s where it’s going. Economics having do to with the word “costly.” Theology having to do with the word “priceless.” Economically speaking, the bottom line is that children are balance sheets (assets/liabilities, tax exemptions/budget drains, that sort of thing). Theologically speaking, the bottom line is that children are gifts….gifts of a gracious God….about which Jesus once said: “Anybody who receives these, receives me. Anybody who sees these, has seen the Kingdom.”

Which means that the value of children can never be determined by cost accounting. It would be like asking: “How pretty is a flower….expressed in dollars? How precious are your children…. expressed in dollars?” The lover who asked, “How do I love thee, let me count the ways,” answered her own question with a poem, not a column of numbers.

Does that mean we should not be prudent in planning our families? With apologies to His Holiness in Rome, of course we should be prudent. But does that mean we should monitor and squelch all lavish impulses in the process of raising our families? Of course we shouldn’t.

A few years ago, Bishop Fred Borsch published a book on the parables of Jesus, taking special note of how many could be called “parables of extravagance.” He noted that many of Jesus’ parables speak of extravagance and waste. Consider the farmer who goes out to sow. Does he do so like my grandfather taught me….prudently….spartanly….carefully? No, he slings seed everywhere, including a whole lot of places where anybody in his right mind would tell him: “It’ll never grow.” And Jesus said: “You see that seed slinger? The Kingdom’s like that. Yes sirree, Bob, the Kingdom’s like that.”

And it’s also like that father who blew ten grand on a homecoming for a hobo. A hobo who squandered what (?) in the far country….not his weekly paycheck….not the contents of his piggy bank….not the savings from his paper route….but the early cash-out of his inheritance. “That’s kinda like the Kingdom, too,” said Jesus.

Or it’s like the shepherd Jesus called “good,” who risked everything for one stupid sheep (a sheep worth all of $3.95 plus postage and handling). Or the woman who broke a $700 bottle of perfume over the body of Jesus. The Kingdom’s like her, too.

Leading Will Willimon to write:

            Anyone who is called in service to this God had better be in the business of extravagant and occasionally wasteful effusiveness. Bean counters, accountants of all kinds, misers and anal-retentive types, they bore this God. Which is why the best pastors are those who are a little bit messy…..who will waste a couple of hours with an 80-year-old in a nursing home….spend a Sunday night (after MYF, when they’re already exhausted) listening to a troubled teenager….or pour their passion into some little church in the boonies for $26,000 and change when they could have gone to law school and started in six figures.

The Christian life is not about parsing out the treasure, but loving without measure. And where better to start than with the children, given Jesus’ words: “If you, then, who are evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly father give good things….(to you).” Which traces the extravagance back to its source, don’t you see. And which further demonstrates the wisdom of Dan Hubert’s favorite saying: “You can’t out-give God.”

Which also brings us parent and grandparent types full circle to the realization that (at the end of the day) we, too, are children.

The professor of preaching, wishing to hear each student preach at least one sermon in their field setting, showed up in the sunroom at Wesley Woods for a service on Sunday afternoon. One by one, the attendees for that service were shuffled in, assisted in and wheeled in. After which the preacher commenced to preach from Luke 18 about people bringing little kids to Jesus.

“Great day in the morning,” the professor thought, “why is she reading that text here, where the average age is 117?” But that’s the text she read. Following which, this is what she said:

            I still can’t get over the fact that the helpers of Jesus….the twelve apostles…. the ministers....the clergy (if you will) said: “Let’s get these children out of here. This is serious business. We’re trying to have a kingdom.”

            Well, in a way, I can understand it. I mean, after all, they make noise. They have to be cared for. Sometimes you have to get up and leave with them. They take everybody else’s time.

            Besides that, they can’t give much….can’t teach class….can’t sing in the choir. They’re just (you know) a burden. I can understand that.

            But Jesus said: “Leave ‘em alone. Let ‘em come. Can’t you see the Kingdom in their faces?”

And the old people in the sunroom of Wesley Woods just nodded, as if to say: “That’s right. That’s right. You tell ‘em, sister.”

Note: The idea for this sermon came from a re-reading of a delightful little book by Tom Mullen entitled Parables for Parents and Other Original Sinners. A very creative thinking and innovative Quaker, Tom taught for years at Earlham University. As concerns Will Willimon’s observations about the extravagance of ministry (derived from the parables), look for Will’s essay in a recent book entitled The Last Word. Finally, the story that concludes the sermon is, once again, one of those splendid recollections from the career of Fred Craddock.