Sermon:
March 29, 1998

Scripture:
Philippians 2:1-11

More and more of you have been telling me about a radio station on the AM dial (580 by number), where they play "oldies from the fifties." So on days when I am feeling my age, I give a listen and am amazed at how many tunes and texts I can remember. Why just the other day I joined the Kingston Trio wondering "Where Have All the Flowers Gone," crooned with Patti Page (in 3/4 time, no less) about that "Beautiful Tennessee Waltz," and then gave full-throated support to the lyric that begins: "There's a pawn shop on a corner in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania." I always change the dial, however, before my steering wheel locks and I head straight for the office of the Social Security Administration.

One song I have yet to hear ... on 580 or anywhere ... is an old camp ballad entitled: "There's A Hole In the Bucket." It's one of those round-the-circle songs where, three minutes and 30 seconds later, you wind up exactly where you began, with very little knowledge as to how you got there. It's a two-person song ... a Georgie and Liza song ... wherein Georgie (the dumb one) begins by complaining to Liza (the slightly less dumb one):

There's a hole in the bucket,
dear Liza, dear Liza.
There's a hole in the bucket,
dear Liza, a hole.

Which occasions her response:

Then mend it, dear Georgie,
dear Georgie, dear Georgie.
Then mend it, dear Georgie,
dear Georgie, mend it.

You can already see why this is one of the truly great lyrics of all time. He asks: "With what shall I mend it, dear Liza, dear Liza?" To which she answers: "With straw, dear Georgie; dear Georgie, with straw." He then poses the possibility that the straw might be too long, leading her to suggest cutting it. He ponders: "With what shall I cut it?", occasioning the response: "With a knife."

But we're only warming up at this point. He speculates that the knife may be too dull. She responds by telling him to "wet it." He wants to know, "With what shall I wet it?" She answers: "With water." But now that the need for water has been raised, he wants to know: "Then how shall I fetch it, dear Liza, dear Liza?" Leading to her answer: "With a bucket, dear Georgie; dear Georgie, that's what." And having seen it coming a mile away, we can now all join in Georgie's lamentful refrain:

There's a hole in the bucket,
dear Liza, dear Liza.
There's a hole in the bucket,
dear Liza, a hole.

I don't know about you, but I have participated in discussions that go just like that. And I have known people with a problem just like that ... meaning that their bucket has a hole in it. Let me explain.

Some years ago, when Kris was in the "crisis hotline" business, she attended a national conference of social worker types, where she learned a bunch of stuff, made a ton of friends, and came home with one wonderful image ... the hole-y bucket. Said one of the keynote speakers: "All of us carry a bucket about waist high. Some of us attach it to our belt, hook it in our pants, fasten it to our skirt, whatever. Our buckets may be of different sizes, different colors, different materials or different shapes, but all of us have one."

The bucket is there to collect all of the things we need to make it through the day ... or to make it through our life. It's there to collect good stuff ... affirming stuff ... esteem-building and ego-stroking stuff. It's there to collect "attaboys" and "attagirls." It's there to collect accolades and assurances. And when we fall short, fall down or fall over, it's there to collect the promise that our sins are absolvable, even when our behaviors are less-than-applaudable.

When life is fair, our bucket is full. We get what we need ... .in the amount we need ... at the time of our need. If our bucket looks a little low (which is evidenced by the fact that we look a little low), folks rush to fill it. Most do so quietly ... unobtrusively ... but caringly: "Here, slip this in your bucket," they say. Or maybe they just mail something to your bucket (like a card or little note). Or perhaps they just put something out in the air ... like a song ... or a sermon ... so that it falls in your bucket, just when you need it most.

Does it really work that way? Sure it works that way. Not always. Not immediately. Not automatically. But it happens. Buckets do get filled. My bucket has been filled, sometimes to the point of overflowing. And often, at the point of greatest need. It's one of the things that makes life bearable and God trustable. People show up ... and ante up ... just when I am running on empty and the bottom of my bucket is as visible as the top.

But have you noticed (as I have) that there are some people whose buckets never stay filled? The good stuff goes in ... but it drains right on through. So you keep filling, but things just keep draining. It's like there's a hole in their bucket, meaning that there can never be enough accolades or "attaboys" ... can never be enough assurances or absolutions ... can never be enough rewards or recognitions. What you do for them today, you have to do for them tomorrow. Then you've got to do it the next day. And the day after that. Either because they didn't get it the first three times ... or because they didn't believe it, once they got it ... or because they couldn't hold onto it, or build anything upon it, before they lost it.

Did you ever meet anybody whose ego you couldn't stroke, whose esteem you couldn't build and whose sins you couldn't forgive, even though you tried? They heard everything you said. They welcomed everything you did. But it all leaked out somewhere, minutes after you said or did it.

The world treats this as a psychological problem. In part, it is. And if you suffer from this problem, you can spend a lot of time ... and a lot of money ... rummaging around in the basement of your psyche, trying to figure out what went on (early or late) to rust or puncture your bucket bottom. Don't get me wrong. Psychology is a valuable enterprise. Therapy is a valuable exercise. And many of its practitioners are wonderful servants of God. Perhaps they can help you find where the leakage started.

A little over a month ago, a young woman came in second in the figure-skating competition in the Winter Olympic games in Japan. She had skated magnificently and had seemed pleased with how well she had performed. But her performance left just a crack in the window ... so tiny a crack that you and I couldn't even see it (we thought her performance was a "lock") ... .and through that crack skated another. This second skater was well known to us, and well loved by us. And this second girl overtook the first girl, claiming the gold. Which left the first girl gracious in defeat, albeit weeping in disappointment. And before the TV cameras, she expressed her congratulations to the winner and her love to her coaches and family members. But then, in a whisper so quiet you had to lip-read it, she added: "I hope you still love me."

Who knows where that came from in Michelle Kwan. Who knows where it comes from in any of us. But there it is, an empty bucket. Which happens to all of us, occasionally ... and to some of us, perpetually.

The more assertive of us simply ask for what we want. I'm fascinated by the people who feel free enough to say to me: "I need a hug." Still others are not bashful in announcing their need for a hand, a hope, or even a kind word. But I fear that the perpetually needy say nothing. Instead, they just keep thrusting their bucket forward, in the direction of everyone they meet, and in the midst of every place they go. The bucket speaks volumes: "Stroke me ... bless me ... forgive me ... fill me," it cries. Which works, for awhile. But pretty soon, people get tired out from putting in. So the attention drops off, the affirmation drops off, and the needy are written off as neurotic. Even the new minister (who wonders why he can't ever seem to do enough, say enough, or give enough to meet someone's need) is told: "Don't take it personally, Reverend. That's just Fran (Fred, Frank, Freda). They will consume everything you've got to give, but it will never be enough. Because five minutes after you give it, they'll discount it, discard it, forget you ever said it, or find some way to twist it from a positive to a negative. That's just the way they are."

Or perhaps that's just the way you are. At which point it becomes a theological problem, don't you see. Psychology may explain it. But I have a feeling that only theology can fix it. And how can theology help you do that? Two ways, I think. First, by confirming your identity. Second, by suggesting a strategy.

First, your identity. Let me ask you a question. Who tells you who you are? Now let me answer that question. God tells you who you are. That's who tells you who you are. But God doesn't stop there. God tells you what you're worth, too. Which is probably a whole lot more than you ever imagined ... or insured yourself for. It is nothing short of spiritual conceit to think that your devalued opinion of yourself matters more than God's exalted opinion of you. And it is sheer arrogance to proclaim yourself unforgivable (or failing to forgive yourself), when God's mercy has already been offered to you, free for the asking.

If you look at "you" and see dirt ... and I look at you and see diamonds ... whose opinion should matter most? Which is a hard question to answer. So let me phrase it differently. If you look at "you" and see dirt ... and God looks at you and sees diamonds ... whose opinion should matter most? If you still say "yours," you've proved my point about conceit.

Prayer room of the synagogue.

Rabbi enters. Beats his breast. Cries: "O Lord, I am nothing, I am nothing." Cantor enters. Beats his breast. Cries: "O Lord, I am nothing, I am nothing." Custodian enters. Beats his breast. Cries: "O Lord, I am nothing, I am nothing." Rabbi turns to cantor and whispers: "Look who thinks he's nothing."

I suppose we all are "nothing," to some degree. But to revel in a lower opinion of yourself than God has of you, is as arrogant and self-centered as the opposite extreme. Having said that, however, I am not sure there is an opposite extreme. Can you really think higher of yourself than God thinks of you? I'm not sure you can.

I just love Fred Craddock's stories. In fact, I love Fred Craddock. Fred teaches preachers. But this story occurred when he was taking a vacation from teaching preachers. He was in the Smokey Mountains, having dinner with his wife. It was a wonderful restaurant ... lofty elevation ... window table ... quiet ... intimate. Suddenly an older gentleman came over to the table and introduced himself. Said Fred: "He was a nice enough fellow, but I really didn't want this thing to stretch on and on, you know."

After awhile, the gentleman asked Fred what he did. Fred said: "I made a mistake and told him the truth. I told him I was a preacher who taught preachers." Whereupon the old gentleman pulled up a chair to Fred's table and said: "Good, I've got a story to tell you." The old man even shanghaied a waitress and ordered pie and coffee before launching into his story. But what a story it was.

When I was a little boy growing up in eastern Tennessee, I was embarrassed, you see. My mother had never married. As a matter of fact, I never knew who my father was. In town, I was simply known as the illegitimate boy. You know what they called me. Sometimes they would snicker and talk and I would see them whispering when I was around. I heard rumors that my father was a drunk somewhere. It was a shameful way to live.

When I was in junior high school, I began to attend a little church in the town. Each Sunday, I would slip into the back pew. Then, as the last hymn would start, I would get up and leave. But the preacher picked up on my pattern, noticing that I always came late and left early. So one Sunday, when the organist started the closing hymn, the preacher hurried to the back of the church and stood between me and the door. There was no other way out. I knew I wasn't going to be able to leave without being greeted.

As the hymn ended, I stepped into the aisle and tried to slip through the crowd. But the preacher restrained me, putting his hand on my shoulder. In a voice that could be heard by everybody around, he said something that embarrassed me almost to tears. He said: "Now let's see. I don't believe we've met. Whose child are you?" Before I could say anything, the preacher answered his own question. "Oh, I know, you are the child of ... you are the child of ... yes, you are clearly the child of God. I see a striking resemblance."

After talking awhile and finishing his pie, the old fellow got up to leave. Whereupon Fred said: "You know, I never got your name." The old man smiled and said: "The name's Hooper. I was fortunate enough to serve two terms as governor of the state of Tennessee."

So much for identity. Now for a word about strategy. How do you keep the good stuff...the kind stuff ... the helpful and healing stuff ... the merciful and redemptive stuff ... from leaking out the bottom of your bucket? I'll tell you how. You empty it from the top before it can slip out the bottom. You give it back. You give it out. You give it away. You fill by emptying.

Which is a frightening thought when you don't think your bucket contains much. Because you want to hoard what little you have. But the great Gospel principle is that you gain by losing ... you keep by letting go ... and you achieve greatness as the by-product of an outpouring of service. Recall the words of Paul, read earlier:

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited. But, rather, emptied himself (wonderful verb), taking the form of a servant, being born in his likeness, and, humbling himself, became obedient to the point of death, even death upon a cross. Therefore, God highly exalted him ...

Which suggests, you see, that the cross was a choice rather than a circumstance. Most of us see it just the opposite. We talk about "the crosses we have to bear," as if they were just additional pieces of life's baggage ... life's heavy baggage:

O me, O my, I've got this infected hangnail ... this bum knee ... this bum ... this boss ... this congregation that grumbles...this colon that rumbles ... this house ... this louse ... this spouse ... I guess it's just the cross I'm saddled with.

Jesus never talked about the cross as something he was "saddled with," so much as something he "volunteered for." The verb is an active one. "Take it up," he said, "for it is the way that leads to life." You want to know the difference between a cross and a burden? I'll tell you the difference. A cross is something you bear for someone else's benefit. But, in the paradoxical economy of the Kingdom, that is precisely what saves you ... bearing someone else's burden.

An elderly patient in a frayed bathrobe shuffled back and forth in a hospital corridor, the aimless movement of one who has outlived his time. Suddenly a name was sounded. His name. He turned to the sound, drawn instinctively toward that name. The name caller was a nurse's aide, pushing a cart filled with pitchers of crushed ice. A mumbled conversation followed. Disbelief, followed by determination, registered on the old man's face. For she had conscripted him to help deliver pitchers to the patients. Need had saved him. Mercy, in a white uniform, had smiled upon him in the nick of time.

The old man still shuffled. His hands still trembled. And efficiency ratings must have tumbled drastically that afternoon. But you could see in the old man's eyes that he had been touched by grace. Fearing that his stamina could not survive the test, the aide pointed down the corridor and said: "We've got to go all the way to the end of the hall." To which he replied (in a cracked voice): "Honey, I'd go clear to the end of the world for you."

* * * * *

Have this mind among you which you find in Christ Jesus who, though he was in the form of God, counted equality with God not as something to be exploited, But emptied himself ...

Whereupon God exalted him.

Note: Fred Craddock's story is currently receiving wide circulation. I heard it from my Indiana colleague, Phil Amerson. The story about the hospital corridor comes from Gene Owens in his splendid little book, Confessions of a Religionless Christian. Paul's words from the second chapter of Philippians are part of a very early Christological hymn. While it is unlikely that these words were sung in first century worship, they probably formed an early credal statement about the person and work of Jesus Christ. Paul clearly knew of its existence and incorporated it into his Philippian correspondence.