The Shirt Off His Back 3/29/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: John 19:23-25

Over the course of 37 Good Fridays, with a few reprieves for good behavior, host pastors for ecumenical services have been handing out assigned texts and telling me: “Here, preach on this.” By now, you’d think I would have seen them all….that my barrel would be full….and that I could quote myself (assuming that’s still allowed). But no, my good Brother Jones stayed awake well into the night, searching for a text about which I have said nothing and, if truth be told (which it should be), have read nothing. And given the sadness of his soon-to-be-accomplished sashay to Seattle, the good Brother Jones won’t even be here for payback time when next we Methodists host the service and I assign the texts.

As texts go, this one is a footnote, really. It has nothing to do with anything Jesus said or Pilate did. It’s about clothes, don’t you see. Not as in “proper attire” for an afternoon crucifixion (before Memorial Day, no less), but as in the clothes that Jesus wore….or did not wear….to his crucifixion.

There are certain facts as John reports them….“facts” in the form of numbers. The main number being four. Four soldiers. And four garments to distribute. Plus an extra. The four soldiers were Pilate’s soldiers….and four soldiers per crucifixion seems to have been a common number (although Acts 12:4 mumbles something about four squads of four, meaning sixteen).

From the soldiers’ point of view, you need to understand that “crucifixion detail” was not considered a plum assignment. I mean, nobody lined up for it. But there were some perks to it. And one “perk” was that you got to take home (with no questions asked) the clothes of the deceased. I kid you not. It was a legitimate perk. History records it. Scholars assume it. Although I doubt that the undertakers at Desmond’s and Hamilton’s still do it. But you could ask.

The gospel says that they (meaning the soldiers) divided four garments. Not stole. Not grabbed. Not made off with. But divided. So, which four?

There is common agreement about three. One soldier would have gone home with Jesus’ headpiece or turban. A second would have claimed his “tallith,” meaning his outer cloak or robe. A third would have walked away with Jesus’ “cincture” or girdle. When we get to the fourth, however, it gets tricky.

The fourth garment could have been his two sandals (considered, for purposes of distribution, as one). But some scholars say it was common to go to your crucifixion barefoot. So, in lieu of sandals, the fourth garment distributed could have been a “haluq”….worn under a tunic….meaning (you guessed it) an undershirt.

This ceremonial stripping may have left Jesus naked, which was the normal practice when Romans crucified people. Which is not pleasant to think about. But if Jesus really was “the new Adam” (“as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive”), perhaps it is fitting for the new Adam to go out as the old Adam came in. Naked, I mean.

But given Jewish disdain for public nudity, it has been suggested that benevolent Roman leaders, not wishing to offend Jewish sensitivities during a pilgrimage period, may have allowed at least minimal coverage.

So now you know….if, indeed, you care. What you and I do not know is what is involved in this “tunic” for which dice are thrown or lots are cast. It was a fifth garment. And there were four soldiers. So, what to do? Well, you could quarter it and send everybody home with an equal portion. But what good is a quartered tunic? Or, you could submit yourself to a little game of chance and win it all (although you could also lose it all). Personally, I’d go for the chance. So would you.

Now I know that gambling anywhere….especially at the foot of the cross….is not a very Baptist-like thing to do. But we’re not talking five card stud here. This isn’t a high stakes, bet the farm, lose the rent money, “first big step on the road to degradation” poker game here. This is a means of distribution, far more than it is an act of degradation. We’ve got four soldiers. We’ve got five garments. We’ve got a Roman practice that says soldiers can take garments home. So how do you split the garments up? Color the soldiers “greedy” if you want, but I’m not really sure that’s what this text is about.

So, smart guy, what is it about? Well, I’m not really sure. But hang tough and I’ll give it a try. The clue seems to be in the word “seamless.” This fifth item of apparel….this gambled-over tunic….is one piece of cloth. And who else….by custom and tradition….wore a seamless tunic? I’ll tell you who wore a seamless tunic. The Jewish high priest, that’s who. And what was the ultimate function of the high priest? I’ll tell you that, too. The high priest was to be the liaison…. the linkage….the bridge, if you will….between God and man. This business about “a seamless tunic” is the text’s way of saying: “This is who Jesus is….the ultimate bridge between God and man.  So don’t mess with either the tunic or the bridge.”

The death of Jesus cannot destroy his status. And even the soldiers….four two-bit actors in the footnote of the drama….do nothing to disturb that. The perfect bridge wears the seamless garment. And interesting, isn’t it, that four guys who really have no reason to care have enough sense not to tear it up.

Now I could get real eloquent around that point, describing how the church through the ages has torn and quartered Jesus….ripping off a little part of him as if it were all of him, and then treating the rest of the church as if it had none of him. I live in fear that someday I am going to see on some church’s signboard: “Jesus is here, and we’ve got him.” As in grabbing him…. clutching him….hiding him….monopolizing him. I would submit that far too many….for far too long….have operated as if the part of Jesus they have is the only part there is, thereby allowing them to be “picky and stingy” about the franchise rights. But this is a cooperative day. And I’m a cooperative guy. So I won’t go there.

Instead, let me say an ancillary word about the difference between the garments and the guy. Clothes may drape the man. In a sartorial way, they may also make the man (I’ll concede that much to the tailors). But clothes are no substitute for the man.

Can’t you just see one of those soldiers putting Jesus’ undershirt up for bid on E-Bay? Or a square of his undershirt? I can hear that soldier now, sitting by his monitor singing: “Nickels, dimes, ten dollar bills, my God how the money rolls in.” If only he’d had the foresight to have Jesus sign it….in Aramaic….for authenticity….before dying. Now that would have been greedy. But smart.

The other night, at a church-based silent auction, I saw a Red Wings jersey signed by Steve Yzerman. I found myself wondering if, perchance, it was a game jersey. Meaning, did Stevie actually wear it? Better yet, had he scored a goal while wearing it? Perchance, in overtime?

As members of my congregation know, I have a daughter….a very smart and very lovely daughter….who, come June, will graduate from Harvard Business School. Where, in addition to everything else she has done, she has played right wing on the women’s hockey team. In fact, her season-ending tournament is this weekend. Yale last night. University of Michigan tonight. MIT tomorrow. Two more days and her teeth are home free.

So I actually considered bidding on Yzerman’s jersey as a gift for my daughter. I dropped out when the numbers got into the middle hundreds. Although, were she to have saved it to wear someday at her wedding, I could have gotten off cheap.

But when one considers “my daughter the hockey player,” it’s a good thing that she will soon have a Harvard degree. For there is no magic in the jersey….no magic in the name….no magic in any garment, any relic, any leftover remnant from anybody (up to and including Jesus). The hem of Jesus’ garment did not stop any woman’s 12-year flow of blood. Although faith in the man who wore it (and, as you Baptists like to say, “in his precious blood”) may have. Souvenirs don’t mean squat until you’ve experienced the main attraction.

I suspect that at the end of a long, bloody day….and a long, bloody detail….any one of those soldiers had a choice of options. A piece of Jesus. Or the peace of Jesus. Unfortunately, in scrambling to pick up the one, they may have missed the other.

Given the benefits of hindsight, don’t you make the same mistake.

The People Next Door 6/23/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

Bay View Assembly, Petoskey, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 10:25-37

In an increasingly secular culture, where churches are now printing the words to the Lord’s Prayer because it can no longer be assumed that visitors know them, I worry that fewer and fewer will know the basic Bible stories which, to me (over time), have become dearer and dearer.

There was a day when almost everybody knew a little something of the “Good Samaritan.” You didn’t have to be a Sunday school graduate to know that your town has a Good Samaritan Hospital….that your state legislature wrestles with good Samaritan legislation….and that somebody, going beyond the ordinary, to help anybody, with no concern for personal security, is commonly referred to as “a good Samaritan.” In church circles, good Samaritans are equated with good Christians. In other circles, good Samaritans are equated with good citizens. Meaning that a term born in the Bible has, long since, transcended the Bible.

I have preached the story before….four times, to be exact. I have visited the site before….four times, to be exact. I doubt it’s the real site. But it’s in the area. It’s also easy to find. You go down the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. I mean, you go “down” the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. Jerusalem is 2700 feet above sea level (meaning that it snows there). Jericho is within hailing distance of a road sign beside which tourists like to have their pictures taken….a sign proclaiming that one is standing at the lowest spot on the face of the earth, over 1800 feet below sea level….meaning that, in Jericho, they grow oranges there. How far, you ask, from snow to citrus? Twenty miles, maybe….although crows fly it shorter, given that crows fly it straighter.

For the road winds down the mountain….20 miles down the mountain….4500 feet down the mountain….with lots of places to get in lots of trouble (then, and still) on the mountain. As late as the fifth century, Jerome called it “the bloody way.” And as recently as four years ago, Etan Ritov (my favorite Israeli guide) told a few of us not to wander too far from the roadside to take pictures of Bedouins, given that all of them like money and some of them have knives.

You know the story. Local Jew takes to the road….meets robbers….who rough him up….then run off….leaving him half-dead, all-but-dead (and, for all I know, wishing he were dead). Priest comes by….Jewish priest, not Catholic priest (same title, different era). Priest passes by. Levite comes by….same religion, lesser status. Levite passes by as well. Samaritan comes by (color him the enemy….disliked enemy….despised enemy….500 years of bad blood between ‘em enemy) and, lo and behold, does the right thing. How about that, sports fans? You never know when you’re going to need help or from whom you’re going to get it.

Sunday school teachers love this story because it can be acted out. Tommy, you be the victim. Mary, you be the priest (Mary, the priest?….whatever). Freddy, you be the Levite. Billy Ritter, you be the Good Samaritan. I don’t know what kind of signals I gave off as a kid, but my Sunday school teachers always gave me the goody-goody parts. In truth, there was a time when I longed for my Sunday school teacher to say: “Billy Ritter, you play the robber. And, when I point to you at the appropriate moment in the story, you come running from behind the flannel board and beat up Tommy, all but killing him.” But no teacher ever said that to me. So I never got to beat up anybody. Instead, I got to be the kid with the bandages. Which prepared me, in a way….I suppose. And isn’t that one of the things Sunday school is supposed to do….prepare preachers (and other Christians)?

Several summers ago, I retold this story under the heading “View From the Ditch.” In that sermon I suggested inserting ourselves into the story….not in the shoes of the robber….not in the shoes of the helper….not in the shoes of the bypasser….not in the shoes of the innkeeper….but in the shoes of the half-dead victim (who, after seeing two of his own spot him and pass him, suddenly sees one of “them” spot him and help him). What must it be like when you are hurting as never you’ve hurt before, to see your last chance represented by someone your people have hated, as never they’ve hated before? At the time, I asked my congregation to imagine what it would be like to be a Jew….lying in a ditch…. opening one oozing and swollen eye, just a slit….only to realize that the one bending over your broken body was Yasser Arafat. I suppose that today you might re-image that. Same Jew. Same ditch. Same eye. Same slit. Same gaze. New face. Whose face? Osama bin Laden’s face.

If that jars you….and I would expect it to jar you….you are beginning to understand how jarring this story was (once upon a time) when Jesus first told it, the lawyer first heard it, and Luke first wrote it.

Lawyer? What lawyer? Why, the one who, while not in the story, is very much in the text. I’m talking about the lawyer who wanted Jesus to tell him what he needed to do (in this life) to guarantee placement in the next. Jesus said, in effect: “Why ask me? That’s already been answered. You can look it up. Most likely, you’ve already looked it up. So what do you read?” Leading the lawyer to answer: “Love God with mind, heart, soul and strength. Love the neighbor, too.” “See,” said Jesus, “you did know.” Leading the lawyer to say: “Neighbor…. which? Neighbor….who?” In response to which Jesus told this little story….the point of which couldn’t be clearer….couldn’t be any clearer. Point being: “Your neighbor is anyone who needs you….or who responds to the need that is in you.” “Neighbor” is not defined by proximity, geography, nationality or theology. “Neighbor” is defined by need.

About which we Christians have never disagreed. I mean, we “get” this story. Many of them, we don’t get. But we get this one. We may not always like it. And we certainly don’t always do it. But we do get it. Pardon me, but you’ve got to be a little bit dumb to miss it.

No, the thing that trips us up (here) is not so much theology as strategy. How is it that one best loves the neighbor? Do we love him best by the words we say to him….or by the things we do for him?

I mean every word when I tell you that, even after all this time, the ministry excites me as much as it ever did. Maybe more. But I will admit that there are things about the ministry that weary me and have gotten “old” for me. Still, it would probably surprise you to learn that those “things” have less to do with tiresome tasks than with tiresome debates. I have reached the point where I am tired of fighting the same old battles. And, at the very top of my list (far above the second place battle) is the one that pits the would-be evangelists among us against the would-be activists among us (the evangelists being energized around the issue of the neighbor’s conversion, the activists being energized around the issue of the neighbor’s care). Save the neighbor? Serve the neighbor? Save the neighbor? Serve the neighbor? Save the neighbor? Serve the neighbor? Most of us know it’s not an either/or thing so much as both/and thing, and that God can use us, wherever (on that spectrum) we care to participate. Some of us will lead the neighbor into the Lord’s house. Others of us will take hammer in hand and build the neighbor his own house. And 37 years have taught me that our leaning (whichever way we happen to lean) is primarily an outgrowth of our nature rather than our nurture.

Several years ago, a pastor announced (via the sign board in front of his church) that, come Sunday, he was going to preach on “The Member of This Church I Would Most Like to See in Hell.” What excitement he caused. What a crowd he drew. The church was filled with people who hadn’t been there in ages….kids who usually walked home after Sunday school….the C and E crowd….and a bunch of curious Presbyterians who wandered over from next door. Everybody was there.

Well, when he finally called a name….he really did call a name….it was the name of everybody’s favorite Sunday school teacher. Then he went on to say that the reason he most wanted to see her in hell was because he was sure that, in two or three weeks, given her saintly nature, hell would be converted and emptied. He didn’t say whether her primary means of accomplishing this would be by holding altar calls or by handing out cups of cold water. But he left no doubt that her love of God and neighbor would not allow her to rest comfortably in her place while the rest of us fared miserably in ours.

Earlier this year, at a seminar in Sea Island, Georgia, I was privileged to sit under the tutelage of Jean Bethke Elshtain, who teaches both divinity and graduate students at the University of Chicago. In the course of her lectures, she added a third slant on the save-the-neighbor, serve-the-neighbor discussion. Growing out of a decade-long study of family and culture, she told us that an interesting set of statistics are emerging. In any given neighborhood, if there is a family of practicing Christians (including school-aged children) living in one house, and a similarly-constituted family of non-practicing anythings next door, the children in the home with no religious orientation will, over time, have deviancy, truancy, and out-of-wedlock pregnancy rates that are lower than the norm in that community. Moreover, when compared to their peers, they will not only get higher grades but will take fewer drugs. Which does not mean that they are being pressured, proselytized or instructed by their church-going neighbors, so much as that their church-going neighbors are modeling their faith and practice in ways that produce benefits in those nearby. In fact, Dr. Elshtain suggested that such studies are generating increasing interest in what is often referred to as “the spillover effect”….which goes beyond what the neighbor says or what the neighbor does to consider who (in the world) the neighbor is.

If anybody should understand this, it should be those of you who summer in Bay View. For never have I seen a community quite like this one where the prime selling point has more to do with community than with geography, activity, or even theology. One might even call it associational evangelism (or “meeting Jesus” by hanging out where a lot of his friends do).

Over the years, I have heard it said: “Always remember, you may be the only Bible your neighbor ever reads….the only Jesus your neighbor ever meets….the only God your neighbor ever sees.” Which is trite. But which may just be true.

Back when I wore a younger man’s clothes, Harold Stassen (sometimes referred to as the “boy governor of Minnesota”) sought, as a political gadfly, the Republican nomination for president at eight separate conventions. Never got it. Never came close to getting it. But he never stopped going for it.

In later life, having missed out on the presidency, he settled comfortably into his role as a grandfather. In fact, so close were he and his grandson that every time the boy’s parents missed the mark….in speech or in deed….the boy would remind them: “Harold wouldn’t like that.” They thought it odd that their kid would refer to his grandfather by his first name. But they had to admit that the point was often well taken. Then, one night, they overheard the boy saying his prayers. Which, after the “now I lay me down to sleep” part, he continued with: “Our father, which art in heaven, Harold be thy name.”

Now, I ask you, how could an otherwise bright and intelligent kid fail to make a distinction between God’s name and his grandfather’s?

            Unless….

                        Unless….

The Delicate Art of Accepting Gifts from Strangers 12/29/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scriptures: Isaiah 9:1-7, Matthew 2:7-11

When asked to draw a picture showing what they would do if Jesus came to spend the day with them, the second grade Sunday school class went busily to work. After several minutes of industrious coloring, Jenny approached her teacher with an almost-finished drawing in hand. “Mrs. Kelly,” she said, “I have a question. How do you spell Bloomingdale’s?”

Shopping with Jesus. What an interesting image for the season. Given that the season is very much about shopping. All of us do it. Some of us, prancing and dancing. Some of us, kicking and screaming. But most of us, hoping that the retailers had a good year, given our concern for the economy and its recovery. In fact, I read so much about that issue this Christmas that I felt it was my patriotic duty to head for the mall. When my car lease expired on December 7 and I had to shop for a new vehicle (a task I generally detest), I actually felt good about inking a deal before the end of the year….not so much because of what I bought, but because I was doing my part. Whatever it takes, George. Whatever it takes.

Clergy, of course, are sometimes seen as scrooges when it comes to shopping. Gold, frankincense and myrrh aside, every one of us has a good sermon against the excesses of gifting, fearing that the mall may be the best place to misplace the reason for the season. Although I have noticed that the same preachers who mug the malls from the pulpit on Sunday tend to appear in them (for purposes of purchase) on Monday. Which proves nothing, save for the fact that if over-commercializing Christmas is a disease, virtually all of us are infected.

I’ll fess up. I bought. I got. And I enjoyed both the “buying” part and the “getting” part. Buying, of course, is connected to giving. And I like giving. I mean, I really like giving. When I was a little kid, I heard people talk about it being more blessed to give than to receive. Like a lot of things in the Bible that sound more pious than practical when one hears them as children, I probably said to myself: “Does anybody really believe that?” But then I grew up….got smart….and found that most of those ancient aphorisms are true.

It is blessed to give. It feels good to give. And in spite of what preachers tend to tell you, giving is not all that much of a problem. At least at Christmas. Christmas brings out the best in us. We put coins in the kettle and food in the baskets. Why, Christmas brings out the best, even in the worst. Which is why the conversion of Ebenezer Scrooge is, apart from the nativity narratives of Luke and Matthew, the most classic Christmas tale of all. The conversion of Scrooge confirms what we would like to believe about ourselves, that down deep, even the worst of us has the capacity to become generous and kind. Scrooge’s story flatters us as givers.

I can identify with that. I like giving. I like what it does. I like the way it feels. I like what it says to me, about me. Like a lot of you, I didn’t grow up with a lot. Money was tight. It’s not that anybody told me that, so much as I instinctively knew that. And I also know that a lot of people who grew up worrying about money, still worry about money. Having once felt “tightness,” they become “tight” for life….spending cautiously….giving conservatively….always looking for hard times….figuring that if they happened once, they could happen again.

Which got me to wondering why such is not the case with me. Then one day I figured out the answer. At the outer fringe of my family (when I was growing up) was my Uncle Walter….my Great-Uncle Walter. And while he was a long way removed from me, the fact that he had money was not lost on me. I mean, he had a lot of it. Which he splashed around pretty good. At a very impressionable age, I saw that. What’s more, I internalized that. It seemed like my Uncle Walter did a lot of good. And it seemed as if doing good made him feel good. I found myself wanting to be like him. I don’t know whether I identified with his generosity, with his sense of well-being that grew out of his generosity, or with his success in business which made his generosity possible. Like a lot of things in our childhood, there were a lot of messages back there. And I probably “got” them all.

What I didn’t get were a lot of lessons in the art of being a receiver. For my uncle was resourceful and independent, while receivers often see themselves as needful and dependent. And few of us like feeling that way. In fact, we will go to almost any length to avoid feeling that way. Our language gives us away. “I paid my dues,” we say. “I earned my way….carried my share….held up my end….shouldered my responsibility.” Did you hear all of those verbs (paid….earned…. carried….shouldered)? Those are power verbs. Those are working verbs. Those are verbs of action. Those are verbs associated with givers. Those are not the verbs of receivers.

A colleague who has spent several years in campus ministry suggests that this explains why some students disparage their parents during their university years. It is humbling (perhaps too humbling) to admit that at age 20 and 21, you are still financially dependent on mom and dad. But more than financial dependency, it is also humbling to realize that other things like your genes, talents, strengths, weaknesses, body image, and even large parts of your personality, have come to you as things received from those same parents. At the very time when you want to think of yourself as self-made and self-directed, you look in the mirror one morning and are forced to realize: “Good Lord, I look just like my old man.” Then you take a good course in psychology, forcing you to look even deeper into the mirror and admit: “Good Lord, I even think and feel like my old man.”

That same difficulty with receiving affects relationships at the other end of the age spectrum. Elderly people fear that they will become sufficiently incapacitated so as to necessitate their being on the receiving end of care from a loved one. I jokingly tell Kris that when that day comes, she should put me on an ice flow and push me out to sea. But my humor gives me away. Like many of you, I assume that being on the receiving end of perpetual care will be equated with “being a burden.” And I don’t like the feelings that go with the word “burden.” Is it any wonder that the receivers of care sometimes lash out against the very ones on whom they are most dependent….and to whom they should be most grateful?

Need more convincing? Consider this. Ask a university fund raiser which group of alumni is most antagonistic when approached for pledges and contributions. They will inevitably answer: “The ones who attended this school on full scholarship.” It’s tough to be a receiver of anything. It’s even tough to be on the receiving end of love….God’s, or anybody else’s. Let me read to you a sentence that you will find astounding: “Nothing is more repugnant to capable, reasonable people than grace.” You know who said that? John Wesley said that. Having held out against grace for a number of years (even as he was preaching its merits to others), he knew whereof he spoke.

Into all of this, we Christians introduce a story. It is a simple story about a God who wanted to do something for us….something so strange and outside the scope of ordinary imagination…. something so beyond what we could conceivably do for ourselves….that God resorted to angels, pregnant teenagers and stars in the sky to get it done. And whatever you think about the details of the story, remember that their purpose is to show us that Christmas is not something we can do for ourselves, but something that God does for us. The details strike the mind as “extraordinary,” precisely so that we will not view what they represent as “ordinary.” “For unto us a son is given.” All we can do at Bethlehem is receive him.

As a Jew, Rabbi Michael Goldberg is impressed by the utter passivity of the characters in the nativity. As a Jew, he resonates to the great saga of the Exodus, where heroes like Moses, Aaron and Joshua are anything but passive receptors. Instead, they come across as superheroes…. mighty actors….people prodded by God to create a new future, not receive one. If you want to understand the force of Goldberg’s point, take time to contrast the Old Testament narratives of the Exodus with the New Testament narratives of the nativity. When depicted by churches, nativity narratives are (in point of fact) tableaus. They are still lifes. Nobody does anything. Nobody says anything. Everybody just gets into position and stands around.

Here at First Church, we do a nativity pageant every three years. This was the year. Many of you were present a couple of weeks ago. It’s a day for great singing and minimal acting. But none of the actors say anything. People just walk into position and portray their part. Once again, I got to be a king. There are three good things about being a king. First, you get to sing all by yourself. Second, the costumes are the very best in our wardrobe closet. Third, the kings enter late in the drama, meaning that for most of the pageant, we sit in the parlor drinking coffee, rather than standing stiff and still in the center of the chancel. By the time we enter, everybody else has been standing in place for several minutes. In fact, Mary and Joseph (and their real, live infant) have been on the scene for nearly half an hour.

You also need to know that as participants in the drama, we are encouraged to maintain our pose and posture long after the pageant is complete. This enables children to come up and walk among the characters (even seeing and touching the baby), while parents and grandparents take pictures from the front of the chancel. It’s all wonderful and touching. It’s also hard on the characters. In fact, at one of the pageants (remember, we do this twice on the same afternoon), Joseph stood so still for so long that I heard him mutter under his breath: “I’ve been rigid for such a long time that my back has locked up.”

But we need the nativity stories. We need their passivity. Because we need to allow the God of these stories to give us an unexpected gift. Somewhere, somehow, somebody has to train us to be receivers.

I suppose it might be easier to accept the gift if we knew more about the giver….and more about the motives of the giver. For we tend to be a suspicious lot. I mean, picture yourself as having a son….a teenage son. Picture him as being sixteen years old. No, make him fifteen and a half. Picture him as beginning to fill out physically, but not quite there socially. Which means, of course, that where girls are concerned, he is something of “hunk,” but socially inept.

Now watch what you do (as parents) when your son comes home from school with a package. It is a Christmas package. From a girl, no less. It is not a girl he has gone out with, so much as a girl he has “kinda talked to at a couple of parties.” The present turns out to be a sweater. A soft and lovely sweater. A cashmere sweater. From having priced such sweaters yourself, you know that (even at one of the outlets) there may be $100 involved in this gift. Suddenly you hear yourself saying: “Son, you need to take that sweater right back to her and tell her that your parents won’t let you accept it. You want to know why? We’ll tell you why. Because this girl is obviously making an assumption that isn’t true, or looking for a relationship that you are not ready for. Every gift comes with a claim, and you’re not ready to be claimed.”

Well, I’ve got to tell you. God’s goal (in giving you his gift) is to claim you….to lure you into a relationship….to draw you closer….to suck you in….to cut through your defenses with something that will be incredibly hard to resist. “Pssst….here kid….wanna see a baby….?”

More amazing still, just when you are least expecting it, God may strategically withdraw….ever so slightly….leaving you holding the baby. Oh, by the way, the gift is non-returnable.

Note: I originally introduced some of these ideas a decade ago under the title “Tis Perhaps More Blessed to Receive.” At that time, I resonated to an op-ed piece in the Christian Century by William Willimon of Duke University. At this juncture, I can no longer cite the date or recall the title.

The Cult of the Publican 5/21/2002

Dr. William A. Ritter

First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan

Scripture: Luke 18:9-14

I suppose the question for some might be: “Would you want your daughter to marry one?” A publican, I mean. No, not a Republican. A “Republican” is a member of a modern political party in America. A “publican” is a first-century tax collector in Jerusalem. As to whether you’d want your daughter to marry one, I suppose it’s a ridiculous question. Not much logic to it. Not much reason, either. But plenty of emotion….raw emotion. And passion, too. When somebody deals the “Would you want your daughter to marry one?” card, they’re not dealing from the head but from the gut. Straight from the gut.

But why wouldn’t you want your daughter to marry this tax collector in Jesus’ little parable? After all, he is the hero of Jesus’ story. He is the one Jesus calls “justified” (meaning “right with God”). He is the one Jesus calls “humble”….on the way to being “exalted.” Which portrays him in rather friendly terms, wouldn’t you say? And any friend of Jesus ought to be a friend of yours, ought he not? Better yet, any friend of Jesus ought to be just perfect as a son-in-law. Dead center perfect. El centro perfecto.

Except that very few people to whom this parable was delivered would have heard it that way. True, this tax man was in the Temple. That’s good. And true, he was praying in the Temple. That’s good, too. But let’s call a spade a spade. He was a tax collector for Rome’s sake. Not that he was a Roman. He wasn’t. He was a Jew. He only worked for Rome.

You’ve heard me explain this before. Sure you have. Israel was an occupied country. Rome was the occupying party. The Jews were an occupied people. Meaning that Jews were not in control of their destiny, politically. Neither were they in control of their taxes, personally. Rome set them. Jews paid them. But even though Rome set them, Rome didn’t collect them. Rome got the Jews to collect them. And then Rome cut a deal with the Jews they enlisted to collect taxes. Rome said (in effect):

            Look, we’ll give you a tax territory. We’ll expect so much money from your territory. We’ll send you. We’ll back you. If necessary, we’ll even put muscle behind you. How you collect the taxes, we don’t care. We just want our share. So go ahead and charge what the traffic will bear. We’ll take the first cut. You get the rest.

And with that kind of mandate…backed by that kind of muscle….those first-century Jewish tax collectors did all right. In fact, some did more than all right. Maybe even made out like bandits. Which is how their own people saw them….as bandits….if not traitors to the cause. I mean, it’s one thing to work for the oppressor. But to profit, thanks to the muscle of the oppressor (I mean, come on now), that’s hard to take.

So most people didn’t….take it, I mean. Tax collectors did pretty well. But they didn’t have many friends. And very few stood in line to become their fathers-in-law. Even if it represented your daughter’s….your homely, homebound, hopelessly-hard-to-marry-off daughter….even if it represented her last (or best) chance, anything but a tax collector.

Now there is a good catch for your daughter. You can also find him praying in the Temple. Doesn’t cheat. Doesn’t steal. Doesn’t fool around. The guy tithes (not just ten percent of his agricultural yield, but ten percent of everything). Doesn’t nitpick. Doesn’t quibble. Sabbath rolls around and he fills up the envelope. Operating Fund. Home Fires Fund. Hunger Fund. Missions Fund. Endowment Fund. Habitat for Humanity Fund. Big chunk for the Christian Life Center. Two huge sacks of groceries. Doesn’t really need the groceries. Because he fasts, don’t you see. Not once a week. Not once plus an additional lunch. But twice a week. Now I ask you: “How many fasts were required by Torah?” Just one. But not one a week. One a year….on the Day of Atonement.

I mean, you can’t ask for more. Would that I had seven brides for such a guy. We’re talking “genuine article” here. Although, maybe not.

That’s because Jesus puts him down. Doesn’t have a good thing to say about him. Worse yet, Jesus suggests that God won’t have much good to say about him, either. But, then, we’ve grown to expect that from Jesus. All kinds of people nobody thinks much of become cult-like heroes in Jesus’ stories. We’re talking

            Samaritans….people with bad blood.

            Lepers….people with bad skin.

            Demoniacs….people with bad heads.

            Women….people with bad genes.

            Fallen women….people with bad morals.       

And now tax collectors….  people with crooked pencils.

When it’s Jesus telling the story, they all come out pretty clean in the wash. While the guy I’ve got my eye on for my daughter, Jesus disses. Out and out disses.

Well, he is a little “stuck on himself” (as my Aunt Marion used to say). It was her stock phrase to describe people who were good, but who made their first mistake in knowing they were good, and made their second mistake in letting her know they knew they were good. Actually, good old Aunt Marion (God rest her soul) coined a pretty darned good phrase when she talked about someone “stuck on himself”….kind of like he was both the record and the needle, allowing him to play himself over and over again to anyone who would listen. Stuck on himself. Wedged in his own groove.

Even in prayer, he figured he’d better remind God of everything he did and did not do….in case God didn’t know, or had forgotten. I mean, God has so much stuff to pay attention to. Therefore, it’s entirely possible God might miss something….like the fact that you were here today….or how good you look today….or how nice you sang today (in Latin, no less). Any group that sings in Latin ought to get big-time points. I mean, it ain’t bragging if you can back it up, is it?

Bringing us back to our Pharisee. Humble, he’s not. But I’d take him as a potential son-in-law. Because it’s easier to teach humility than ethics. That’s the way the world looks at things. Heck, most days, that’s they way I look at things. If this nice-talking, hard-working, high-tithing Pharisee doesn’t want to marry my daughter, maybe he’d like to join my church. I could make a great church out of people like that. Truth be told, I already have. Four times. I tell my colleagues: “Don’t go knocking Pharisees until you’ve taken a good look at your membership rolls. Or in your mirror.”

If only the Pharisee hadn’t looked at the tax collector with such disdain. Remember how he put it to God: “I thank you, Lord, that I am not like him.” To be sure, all of us have felt that. But most of us are smart enough not to say it. Or pray it. Because God can’t let you get away with that. I mean, what kind of God is going to let you get away with that? And would you actually sing the praises of a God who would let you get away with that?

As I’ve told you before, from time to time I tell my wife about all the “schmucks” she could have married. Whenever she says, “Name five,” I never do. That’s because I would be mortally wounded if, upon naming them, she didn’t view them as schmucky as I did. Like the time I said to the lady a couple of churches back: “You know, you’d better get with the program. I mean, I could be out of here, and you could have Rev. Smith as your preacher.” To which she said: “Really?”

What if some guy said to his wife: “Who would you rather have, me or him?” And she took him? And what if the same guy tried the same bluff on God: “Who would you rather have, me or him?” And God took him?

Well, for the moment (and for the purposes of Jesus’ little story), God took “him”….the schmuck. Why? I guess because he was a humble schmuck….and a repentant schmuck. At least that’s what the story says.

To which I can only add one thing. Be wary of making comparisons. We may lord it over somebody in the short run. But, sooner or later, we are all going to meet our match….or more than our match. And then we are going to be shown up for what we are, or what we aren’t. That’s why every prayer ought to be offered in a posture of contrition (beginning with the language of confession). Because who is prayer offered to, anyway, unless it be the one who, daily, makes me look paltry….or puny….by comparison. And the best reason for praying while sitting down or lying down is that, when all is said and done, none of us has a leg to stand on….let alone two.

William Barclay writes:

            The question is not: Am I as good as my fellow man? The question is: Am I as good as God? Once I made a journey by train from Scotland to England. As we passed through the Yorkshire moors, I saw a little whitewashed cottage and it seemed to shine with an almost radiant whiteness. Some days later, I made the journey back to Scotland. Snow had fallen and was lying deep all around. We came again to the little white cottage. But this time its whiteness seemed drab, soiled, and almost gray in comparison with the virgin whiteness of the driven snow.

According to a snow advisory that Paul W. Smith will air on WJR, the last mound will melt on the last mountain in Boyne country sometime in mid-May. And when it melts, it will be neither white nor pure….but grainy and gray. I ask you, how will that last resistant pile of shabbiness finally disappear? They tell me that the sun will do it. No kidding. That’s what they tell me. That the Son will do it.

“God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”