Scripture:
Hebrews 8:8-13
Luke 5:17-20

It's a group class. There are at least thirty couples there. Most of them are married. But not all. It never occurred to us that the class would require us to dance with other people. But we do. Which is all right, once the initial surprise wears off. For dancing with other people heightens our appreciation for each other. At the end of the hour, familiar arms feel like home. Which will preach ... some other day.

Ironically, there is another First Church couple among the thirty. Which we didn't know until we got there. And who we didn't know until we got there. I suppose it gives new meaning to the phrase "pastoral contact." Nonetheless, it's a fun class. We've learned fox trot and swing, with rumba and waltz to go. No polka. But I already know that. I'm ethnic, remember? If and when Julie ever gets married, she says the daddy-daughter dance is going to be "Roll Out the Barrel."

My purpose in telling you this is not to impress you, or surprise you. Although it will surprise some of you, given your remembrance of an era when dancing was one of the things Methodists were known for avoiding. When I was a teen, we had youth dances at my church. Everybody excused that by saying: "It's a good way to keep kids off the streets." But sometime during the mid-`50s, my Methodist church sponsored a few adult dances. This may very well have happened when Bob Ward was our fresh-out-of-seminary Associate. And I remember the great hue and cry about "pillars" being offended and former ministers rolling over in their graves. Which may have happened. But the adults danced anyway.

Today, kids dance here. As could adults, were they so inclined. And each Tuesday night, several of our stalwart members adjourn to the Rainbow Room (following the Tuesday night buffet) to play cards. With the roof still intact.

I don't want to push this any further, but I offer it as commentary on Colin Morris' observation (noted in this week's Steeple Notes) that the proverbial man on the street sometimes assumes that we Methodists are "the apostolic remnants of a petrified Puritanism, believing that if something's fun, we're against it ... if it's great fun, we're very much against it ... and if it's a real whoopee, we want a bylaw banning it."

Whether that ever was us, few are comfortable with letting that image define us ... or speak for us. We would just as soon be known for something other than what we don't do. Although, in an "anything goes" kind of world, a "some things don't go" kind of message might have a holy and winsome appeal. That, too, will preach ... some other day.

But if we aren't "petrified Puritans," who are we? People aren't really sure anymore, given the blurring of denominational lines, to the point of erasure. I could respond to that challenge by turning to Wesley (which I've done) ... by turning to Methodist history (which I've done) ... or by turning to the relatively few unique contributions of Methodist theology (which I've done). I could also turn to what the bishops say (which I've not done). For depending on the bishop (or the subject), I could end up polarizing the house. Or I could talk about our style of church government. But that would set you to snoring ... calling to mind that old definition of a preacher as being "someone in a black robe who talks in other people's sleep."

So what I have decided to do ... in two weekly doses ... is share a word about style. Methodist style. Methodist discipleship style, if you will. And what follows is not one word, but six (three this week, three more on February 1). I don't pretend that these are the last six words on the subject ... the best six ... or the only six. Neither are they totally my six. Some of them come from Colin Morris, who loves the Methodist church as much as I do (albeit from the other side of the ocean).

These six words are poised, like an upside-down pyramid, on the base of a three-letter word. This little word resounds like a drumbeat through all of Wesley's preachings and all of our subsequent practicings ... unleashing spiritual power wherever people take it with the same deadly seriousness as Wesley did. This tiny, gigantic word is "All." That's right ... "All." This morning: three privileges offered to "All." Next time: three obligations required of "All."

First, all may come.

We hold that God is both universally and immediately accessible. Lots of folk aren't ... accessible, I mean. You can't call them. You can't see them. You can't get near them. You can't converse with them. They have people to protect them ... procedures to protect them ... policies to protect them ... even police to protect them.

"Let your request be made known unto God," says Paul. But we live in a world where requests get buried under mountains of paper ... bound in miles of tape ... lost in shuffles ... and routinely rejected by underlings, who (we suspect) never show them to the persons for whom they are intended. In fact, it is the person who says "I can put you through," or "I'll see to it that you get an appointment," who becomes the savior of the submerged, and who greases the gears of bureaucracy.

As the senior minister of a large church, I do everything possible to remain visible and accessible. I study at home so that I can be available in the office. I leave my door open unless someone is with me. I keep my office positioned near the traffic flow of the building. Nobody screens my calls. Nobody reads my mail. I believe that the ministry is one of those quirky professions where interruptions are my business. And I try to heed the sage wisdom of the late British divine, William Tyndale, who said: "Be ye of a harborous disposition." All of which is grossly inefficient and (at times) impossible to live up to. But it represents an attempt to model in my work what I believe in my heart ... about ministry ... about God ... and about Jesus Christ.

Wesley preached the accessibility of God. And he preached it in Cornish tin mines, on the decks of slave ships, in debtors' prisons, and in churches whose walls were chilled by dead formalisms and icy legalisms.

In Wesley's day, the idea that "all may come" was the antidote to a pair of elitisms ... one social ... the other, theological. It was written that the Duchess of Birmingham once went to hear Wesley preach and was outraged when street wretches got to their feet and testified that their sins had been forgiven. Her philosophy was that "folk of quality ought to receive the consolation of religion in judiciously offered doses, whilst lower classes would be vicariously edified (at a distance) by observing their betters at prayer."

But while the Duchess made her case for the rights of the socially elite, others (of that day) argued on behalf of a theological elite. Such arguments put limits on "who" God planned to save, and "how many" God planned to save. Some even argued that a pre-selection had already been made ... by election or predestination ... meaning that sheep would always be sheep and goats would always be goats, with no chance that one might be transmogrified (or converted) into the other. In our day, such discriminations may be more subtle. But we continue to fight them as tenaciously as Wesley did. Wherever Methodists go, more doors are opened than closed. It's who we are. And who we've always been.

My first year in the ministry, I took my confirmation class to a number of neighboring churches. Since we were located in the downtown area of West Dearborn, we could walk to other sanctuaries on a Sunday morning. When my kids first encountered a church that was unwilling to serve them the Sacrament of Holy Communion, they were shocked. The concept of a "gatekeeper" at the Lord's table was utterly foreign to them.

All may come! Recall Luke's little story, read earlier, about the healing that took place at Capernaum. You remember the details. Jesus is building a reputation as a healer. Meaning that when Jesus is rumored to be in the neighborhood, everybody comes around. I mean, wouldn't you? Especially if you were sick. Or if somebody you knew was sick.

So the house is crowded. It's worse than the emergency room at Beaumont. The secret is out. Everybody wants in. After all, it's a good show. And a free one. So the house is full. Parking lot, full. Neighbor's yard, full. So here comes a bunch of people, carrying a man on a makeshift stretcher. What are they gonna do? Where are they gonna go? Front door ... no. Back door ... no. Windows ... no. Take a number ... no numbers.

But you know how it goes. Or you know where they go. Up on the roof, that's where they go. Whereupon they start removing tiles. Good God, they're dismantling the roof. Creating an opening. Building a permanent skylight. Whereupon they lower the stretcher down to the feet of Jesus. And Jesus doesn't chew them out ... call the police ... or tell them to take a number. Instead, he takes care of them. Which means that the first miracle of the day is the miracle of accessibility. Anybody can get in to see this doctor.

"All shall know me, from the greatest to the least" (Hebrews 8:11). Methodists are big on that. It gets us into lots of trouble sometimes. But if we go overboard in any direction, it's always going to be this one.

Second, all may receive.

What is going to happen when they come? We're going to offer them something. If the truth be known, we're going to offer them several things. We're going to offer them opportunities to learn and sing. We're going to offer them opportunities to work and serve. And we're going to offer them opportunities to meet, greet and eat. Especially eat. We're probably also going to offer them the benefit of our "informed Christian opinion" on every trend or temptation of the day. Which some will love and others will hate ... depending on the degree to which our opinions happen to match theirs. Which is a precarious balancing act. And which can get preachers admired ... or fired. But, then, silence can get preachers fired, too ... given that very few people admire someone who will never take a stand.

But the main thing we're going to offer them is none of the above ... or, hopefully, infused through all of the above. I'm talking about the saving grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. That's the best thing we have to offer them. Maybe the only thing. For the gospel is not a compendium of infallible answers to every problem history may throw up. If it was, my job would be infinitely easier.

But Jesus Christ is the answer to the gulf that sin throws up ... and the means by which the question can be answered: "How do I get from here to there?" Which becomes especially acute when everything I want (including the God who I want ... the family that I want ... the healing and wholeness that I want ... the love that I want ... the crud-cleansing waterfall of mercy that I want ... not to mention the promise that when all seems dead, it won't be, that I want), is over there, and I'm over here?

Well, we Methodists say that the accessible God is also the gulf-bridging God. We say that God will find a way to find you ... fill you ... fix you ... feed you. What's more, we believe that God wants to do it for everybody. All Christians preach that gospel to individuals. But we Methodists have a bias toward preaching it to the world.

In the jargon of today's youth, none of us has our "stuff" together. But the sad truth is that "none of us" quickly adds up to "all of us," meaning that we are not only broken individually, but we are broken collectively. Which is why the quintessential Methodist command is to do an about face on the way to the altar, go find our brother ... go find our sister ... go find our mother and our father ... and go find the obnoxious neighbor that we can't stand (or the unusual neighbor that we misunderstand) ... and take them by the hand, so that we might approach the altar together.

To be sure, there is joy in heaven over one sinner who repents. It says so in Luke 15. Three times. You can look it up. But the "whole creation," says Paul, "has been groaning in travail like a pregnant woman, panting toward the birth process known as redemption." Which is more than one mere sinner. And which is why, if Methodists err, it is probably going to be in the direction of more grace than less ... wider bounds than narrow ... more doors open and fewer doors shut ... not to mention more pardons, additional reprieves, multiple chances and endless extensions of due dates. Which, when compared to what others preach, will seem lenient to some and lax to others. But that's who we are. And always have been. For we are those people who believe that God is sufficiently restless, that He will not be able to sleep until every last car is in the drive ... every last key is in the door ... and every last wayfaring child is safely tucked in the sack. All may come. All may receive.

Third, all may enjoy.

Were we to interview people who have left our denomination in recent years, I am not sure we would find one predominant reason. But were we to interview the many who have passed through Methodist doors but have never stayed, I think we'd find the word "boredom" high on the list. Occasionally, I talk to the district superintendents of our denomination who go from church to church, Sunday to Sunday, "checking things out." "Give me an overall impression of the state of Methodist worship," I ask. "Dull," is what they answer. "Most of what we experience is decent, but dull."

How in the world did the spiritual sons and daughters of Wesley descend to "dull?" We weren't once. And we needn't be now. To be sure, we have never been great liturgical giants. We have never been great sacramental giants. Neither have we stood all that tall in the quieter worship arts like meditation, prayer or discernment of the Spirit. But we could preach and sing. And we could do it with energy, passion, and more than a modicum of skill. We were a preaching, singing people. The rest was the "fill" that somehow held it all together. I'll catch "holy Ned" from my colleagues for saying that, but it's true. When we do liturgy, it should be good liturgy. And when we celebrate the sacraments, they should be infused with meaning and executed with dignity. But the "enjoyment" customarily associated with Methodist worship comes primarily from two things ... a tune joyfully raised and a sermon powerfully preached.

And the other thing that characterizes us (at our best) is the sense of expectancy we bring to worship, crackling in the atmosphere as a feeling that something extraordinary is about to happen. Early Methodists expected that (by God's grace) amazing things had happened to others ... could happen to them ... and were fit reasons to praise and petition the God who could make them happen in the future.

An interesting thing happened last week at my Wednesday morning men's group. Jim Lowman said that, by his count, 98% of the people we had prayed for in recent months had gotten well. I don't know where Jim got that number. He probably picked it out of his ear. But whether he was accurate or not, we prayed with greater energy that morning. For Jim gave us fresh reason to think about the power of prayer and the opportunity to claim it, unashamedly, for ourselves and others.

I know that I never come into this pulpit without expecting great things of myself ... great things of you ... great things of my sermon ... and great things of my God. I may "bomb" from time to time, but I never (repeat, never) get up here and merely go through the motions.

What's more, I try to preach out of the depth and richness of my own personal experience. It is one of the great truisms of evangelism that more people would believe our gospel of redemption, if more of us looked like we had been redeemed. All of which brings to mind the third graders who sent a note to the head of the class. Opened and unfolded, it read: "Teacher, if you are happy, why not send a message to your face?"

To be sure, there are limits to everything. Our job is not traipse around the sanctuary like happy idiots, dress the ushers in bunny suits on Easter, or reset every beloved hymn text to the melodies of Metallica. But we are called ... you as well as me ... to become walking parables of a faith that may be enjoyed, rather than simply endured.

All may come.

All may receive.

All may enjoy.

Three Methodists privileges. With more to come. But not today. Patience is a virtue. Good things come to those who wait. And to those who dance.

Note: This sermon owes a debt of gratitude to Colin Morris who has served numerous leadership positions in British Methodism, including a stint as the preaching minister of Wesley's Chapel, London. His statements on "petrified Puritans" were made in a book entitled Bugles in the Afternoon. My treatment of Luke's story of the paralytic was suggested by Harvard University's Peter Gomes.