Sermon:
March 15, 1998

Scripture:
Ephesians 2:4-10
Romans 3:19-24

Zookeepers tell me that the best way to experience wild animals is to see them in their natural habitats. Which leads me to wonder if the same could be said for teenagers. And where is the natural habitat for a teenager, if not his or her room? Which, to a teen, represents something between a demilitarized zone and a comfortable place to "crash." And which, to a parent, resembles something between an urban slum and a medieval chamber of horrors. The best that can be said about the rooms of teens is that each is distinctive, meaning that it feels like entering a foreign country whenever one musters the courage to try.

Not that one tries often, mind you. Subtle signs on the door, with messages ranging from "No Trespassing" to "Death to All Invaders," have a way of discouraging even the most adventuresome. Once inside, parents remember nostalgically how they once shopped with their little girl for matching curtains and bedspreads, or with their little boy for corkboards, Tiger pennants and model airplane mobiles. Now, most parents are happy if the walls aren't painted black, and if the musicians on the posters are fully clothed and have a minimum number of metal rings piercing their various body parts.

Actually, most kids' rooms are not that bad. If only teens weren't such hoarders. Everything is stockpiled in a teenager's room ... pizza crusts ... pop cans ... .dirty socks ... 90% of the family's bath towels ... 60% of the dishes that used to be in the kitchen ... $27 in loose nickels, dimes and pennies ... along with the remnants of last year's Halloween candy (which your kids were too old to go out and collect, but they went out and collected it anyway). And this does not include the clothes which are everywhere but on hangers and hooks. Very few people know this, but the phrase "the layered look" was not originally coined by fashion experts to describe the way clothes are draped upon the body, but rather the way clothes are piled on the floor. The only saving grace is that such piles give the dog a place to sleep.

I was talking with a First Church mom, listening to a description of just such a room in her home. It's her son's room, which features "the layered look" ... .bordering on "the dumpster look." "But he's such a great kid," she said, "that I don't really bug him about it." But recently it got to her. So she made him a deal. If he would take the lead, she would lend a hand as his one-time, one-shot, dirt-cheap cleaning assistant.

"Done deal," he said. So mother and son commenced to clean. Several hours later ... and several layers down (as in an archeological dig) ... she came upon a plastic trash bag. Opening it, she found underwear, socks, T-shirts and walking shorts (all of them rumpled and ready for the laundry). But that wasn't all. There was one thing more. It was heavy, cumbersome and hard to extract. What was it? It was a bird feeder. A hand-made bird feeder. Made by the kid who owned the underwear, T-shirts and socks. Made at camp. Made last summer. One trusts that finding it gave both of them a good laugh. Which beats crying. Or fighting.

For parents and teens often "go to war" over the relative cleanliness of such rooms. Sometimes the parents win. Sometimes the kids win. Most often, nobody wins. For the issue is never about cleanliness. The issue is always about control. Teens need to explore the meaning of "independence" and what it feels like to assert some. Parents need to figure out how much control they can surrender, without giving away the store. Veterans of "the room war" describe it as a relatively minor movement in that great ballet which is known as "growing up and letting go." Along the way, creative dancers learn to strike compromises. Some parents say: "I don't care if you ever make your bed again, but there is no way we can allow you to leave food in your room for more than three days." While other parents say: "What you do with your clothes is your business, but we refuse to go rummaging in those piles on the floor, looking for things that need to be washed, ironed or mended."

Parents fear that teenage messiness is a commentary on their parenting skills. It isn't. Parents also feel that a habit of messiness, learned in the formative years, will follow such kids into adulthood. It won't ... at least not automatically. In fact, when it comes to messiness, all of us have our moments ... and our places. I recently went to lunch with a professional woman. It was a business lunch. But since I had no car that morning, she had to drive. Which, methinks, came as a surprise to her, given the appearance of her car's insides. How shall I describe it? "Comfortably casual" would be too benign. "Pigsty" would be too severe. I really didn't mind waiting while she cleared a place for me to sit. But it embarrassed her, leading her to say: "I'm not this way about most things. It's just that I've slipped into the habit of using my car as a slightly larger purse, don't you see?"

Which I did ... .see, that is. But I know enough about her to understand that her car is the aberration, while (in the rest of her life) neatness is the norm. I don't know how her kids do, but (as with most kids) once they get through the control issue, they'll probably clean up their act. Besides, there is no demonstrable equation between a clean kid and a good kid. At least none that I know of. Don't be fooled. Cleanliness is not anywhere near being next to godliness ... and must never be confused with godliness. And keep in mind that you are hearing this from somebody who has a neurotically high need for domestic neatness and order.

The thing I want you to see is that I am not really talking about rooms (and how to clean them), but about relationships (and how to reconcile them). Kids have known, from time immemorial, that one way to get on the right side of parents is to clean their room. When things get sticky enough, so that even teenagers can't stand the tension, you will often find them cleaning without being told. Instinctively, they know that they have pushed things too far. And they also know that "cleaning things up" is one way of getting back in parental good graces.

A strange thing happened as I was writing these words. I realized that I had perfected the same skill, translating it from the home I shared with my mother to the home that I share with my wife. Whenever I feel that I have "muddied things up" in the marriage ... and feel a need to reposition myself on Kris' good side (not that all her sides aren't "good sides") ... I will inevitably go clean something. In response to which she will inevitably say: "You really don't have to do that, you know." To which I will respond (although not always out loud): "Oh yes I do."

If "good grace" is something we can fall from ... or get on the wrong side of ... the most natural thing in the world is to expend effort and energy to get back in. In short, we work at it. I do it. You do it. We all do it. If bad works, or no works, caused our downfall, good works should help to balance the books. And when we are uncertain as to how strangers will view us, we know that "good works" will lengthen the likelihood that they will look upon us favorably.

During this season of the year, many of our high school seniors are waiting for letters of acceptance (or rejection) from their colleges of choice. An even greater number of juniors are trying to decide where to apply and how to apply. For if the "where" of choice is a highly-selective school, the "how" of the application can be of critical importance.

I have discovered that you can pay experts to guide you through the collegiate application process. To be sure, you have to do the work. And you have to tell the truth about the work you have done. But the expert can tell you what "works" to highlight and how to package your "works" on paper, all the while offering valuable tips about the kinds of "works" various colleges may be looking for in any given year. I have even heard First Church kids talk about what kinds of things will "look good" on their college applications. Let's be honest, certain "good works" can lubricate the gears of collegiate acceptance.

The same thing is true about writing grant proposals for funding. I am involved with several organizations that periodically approach foundations for major gifts. Central to each approach is a carefully prepared "statement of the case." What is unusual about the "case statement" is that it is less concerned with why you need the money than with the reasons you are worthy of receiving it. You justify your need by promoting your virtues. You extend your hat in one hand while showing forth a slew of good works in the other.

During the time of Jesus, many Jews knew the process well. Concerned with the question of whether God found them worthy, they decided to increase their chances of success by putting their best-possible feet forward. Theirs was a "merit badge theology," although the "good works" they attempted to pile up had less to do with tasks accomplished than with laws obeyed. They reasoned: "We will stay on the right side of God by staying on the right side of God's requirements. We will keep one eye on the big requirements and one eye on the little ones. We will heed the commandments (major) and the regulations (minor)." And they did. Or they tried to. They kept the dress codes and the diet codes. They said the proper prayers and made the proper offerings. They were kosher in kitchen and kosher in conduct. What's more, they argued endlessly over the Law ... what it commanded ... how far it could be bent ... and who kept it more assiduously than anyone else. To this very day, I have heard Orthodox Jews argue about whether turning off a light switch (following sundown on Friday) constitutes work, thereby breaking the Sabbath.

Jews lived the best possible Torah, believing that in doing so they were piling up some impressive credentials. Their efforts were not to be sneezed at. On one occasion, Jesus said that the good life was "at least as much as the Pharisees are doing." And every preacher knows that it is a lot easier to run a church if you have a bunch of Pharisees in key positions. But, in attempting to put the best case forward, we face certain difficulties which may actually sabotage what we are trying to accomplish.

First off, we are probably going to become obnoxious. It happened to the Pharisees. And it will happen to us. People who try to earn their way into a relationship by the diligence of their efforts, will eventually undermine the acceptance they crave. You can argue that it shouldn't be that way. But it is. Such people are sometimes called "kiss ups." Other times, "the hard righteous." Often, they are referred to as "good people in the worst sense of the word."

Why is that? I suspect it is because one senses something ungenuine about them. They are not real. They are "too good to be true" (which is a rather remarkable phrase, once you think about it). Kris and I have spent some time in the company of an incredibly "nice" lady. She would probably be "nice" if it killed her. But her demeanor does not always ring true. She strikes me as someone who grits her teeth to be nice. I find myself wondering why. Why does she work so hard at it? Is it for my benefit? For hers? For God's? I don't have the faintest idea. What I do know is that it is hard to be around her for very long.

But in addition to becoming obnoxious, the salvation-by-works people are also going to become frustrated. Think about it this way. What happens to you when you think that your acceptance is tied to your performance? I'll tell you what happens. You are going to have to keep performing, that's what. And you are going to have to keep improving. Did somebody tell you that? Not necessarily. But they don't have to tell you that. Because that's the way your mind works.

When I was about 12 years old, I began to give serious thought to becoming a minister. About the same time, I thought that I should say my prayers in a more disciplined manner, upon getting into bed. Surely God expected more of would-be ministers than normal people. So I started out with the Lord's Prayer (which I knew by heart and repeated with regularity). Then, believing that God probably wanted a lengthier performance, I added "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep." I knew it was a bit juvenile, but it was the only other prayer I knew. Feeling the need (a few nights later) to expand my repertoire, I reached back into my Roman Catholic memory and added "Hail Mary." Surprisingly, I still remembered it. On subsequent nights, having now run out of prayers, I added the verses of familiar hymns. But most of the hymns I could recite by heart had a rather patriotic flavor, beginning with lines like, "O Beautiful for Spacious Skies," and "My Country, `Tis of Thee." When you couple the words of "America the Beautiful" with the words of "Hail Mary," you get a rather amazing mixture of devotional sounds. But what choice did I have? I'd run out of options. Eventually, saying my prayers became such a burden that I didn't want to go to bed. Praying had become overburdened with performance anxiety. I thought I had to pray more and more, doing it better and better.

Today, I have a similar problem with sermons. I never measure myself against other preachers. But I often measure what I did today against what I did yesterday. Somebody will come out of church, grab my hand and say: "Great stuff ... keep it coming." And someone else may add: "That's the best sermon I ever heard you preach." Which feels good on Sunday afternoon. And still feels good on Sunday night. It even feels good on Monday. But by the time Tuesday rolls around, I find myself mumbling: "How am I gonna top that?" As Fred Craddock says: "For those of us who try to earn even a little bit of our salvation by what we do, success casts every bit as dark a shadow as failure." Perhaps even darker.

You get frustrated. That's what happened to Paul. The more he tried to keep the Law, the more he fell short. Eventually "the Law" became his enemy and his judge. He found himself wishing he'd never read it ... learned it ... or committed himself to practicing it. I suppose it's like a golfer, trying to follow 622 requirements essential to a picture-perfect golf swing. Sooner or later, he can't hit anything. Or maybe it's like an erring husband with a list of 27 improvements he's supposed to make, following which his wife might (just might) consider letting him back into the "good graces" of their marriage. He's got the list in his pocket. He even asked for the list. "Give me a list," he said. "Tell me what you want me to do. I'll do it." The marriage counselor heard him say it. His wife heard him say it. Which is why she wrote the list. But, in becoming a slave to "the list," he loses sight of the relationship. As does she.

This whole business of "performance anxiety" reminds me of the woman who said: "I've finally got a cleaning lady. I've always wanted a cleaning lady. I've been praying that God would help me find a cleaning lady. I can't tell you how good it feels to have a cleaning lady. I'll just scrub a few floors and tidy things up a bit before she gets here."

When you think you've got to earn your salvation, you are going to become obnoxious ... .you are going to become frustrated ... and, in the last analysis, you are going to fail. Because you aren't going to be able to do enough, give enough, or stay clean enough for long enough. Which is going to leave you limping before the throne of judgment, without a leg to stand on.

So what are you going to do then? You will probably fall back on that old gambit of comparing yourself favorably with some lesser bloke ... the one just ahead of you, or just behind you, in line.

Well, yes, Lord. I know that what I am bringing, in terms of a life, isn't exactly stellar. But compared to him ... to her ... to them ... to those people in the choir ... I mean (Lord), it could be a whole lot worse. And you do grade on the curve, don't you?

It's the same gambit I occasionally try with my wife (when I think I've fallen a little short in the "husband department"). I try to paint a rosier picture of myself by painting a smellier picture of a whole bunch of other guys she could be married to. "After all," I say, "it could be worse. You could be married to ... or ... or even ... " One time, after I said that, she asked: "Are you making an offer?" But the issue, you see, is not that some other guy might be worse. The issue is that I should be better.

Except that I'm not. And God knows it better than Kris. And, if the Apostle Paul is right, God also knows it about Kris. For didn't Paul say to the Romans: "There is no distinction, since all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

So ...

• if you are weary of earning your way,

• if you feel driven to prove yourself,

• if your "case" has a few holes in it,

• and if your room ... or your life ... is less than squeaky clean,

then I have some great news for you. God never inspected a room where He couldn't find someone in it to love.