Sermon:
August 9, 1998

Scripture:
Matthew 5:21-26
Revelation 21 (selected verses)

It is rare when people remember their dreams. And it is rarer still when they reveal them. But Dave Breedlove remembered and revealed one of his the other day. And if I am recalling it accurately, it went something like this:

I dreamed (Dave said) that Dale Parker died and went to heaven. Upon checking his record at the gate, St. Peter said: "I am sorry, Dale, but I have found a few blemishes on your otherwise pristine page, meaning that you are going to have to do a little bit of penance before you can stay." Whereupon St. Peter proceeded to chain Dale at the ankle to one of the meanest, nastiest and ugliest women he had ever seen.

Dale took all of this in stride, figuring that a few months of penance would be a pittance, compared to the eternity of bliss that would surely follow. And Dale was fine with this until he saw his preacher walking along, similarly chained at the ankle, to Julia Roberts. Seething with resentment, Dale worked his way back to St. Peter who was tending the gate. "I don't get it," Dale shouted. "Here I am sentenced to perform what you call `a little bit of penance,' and I end up chained to the meanest, nastiest and ugliest woman I have ever seen. And there goes Ritter, chained at his ankle to Julia Roberts." To which St. Peter replied: "Dale, settle down. There is something you don't understand. Ritter is Julia's penance."

I tell that story with a definite purpose in mind. Not to debate the relative fitness of Dale Parker and myself for heaven. Not to create speculation about Dave Breedlove's dream life. And certainly not to get a cheap laugh from the likes of you. Trust me. I have bigger fish to fry.

I tell that story to illustrate a great truth about humor. Most of us joke about things that confuse us, or give us cause for anxiety. Humor is one of the best ways we have of relieving anxiety. I am convinced that anxiety lies behind the many jokes we tell about sex. And I am similarly convinced that anxiety lies behind the many jokes we tell about death. In a strange way, Dave's dream is a joke about both.

But in reflecting upon this, I got to thinking about all the jokes about someone who died and approached St. Peter. There must be hundreds of them. Which must mean we are pretty anxious about death and whatever follows. Questions abound.

Where will we go?

When will we get there?

What will we do there?

Who will we see there?

Will we meet our loved ones there?

Will there be any judgment there?

Will there be any justice there?

Will there be any fulfillment there....

especially for those who have died too soon....

died too sinful....

or died too separated?

Such questions give rise to humor. They also give rise to reverie, along with philosophy and theology. They have been around a long time. And they have never been fully answered. The Apostle Paul fingered the problem when he said: "Hey friends....it's a mystery. We shall not all sleep; we shall all be changed." Then Paul spent 58 verses of the fifteenth chapter of First Corinthians trying to explain the very thing he called "a mystery." Paul should have left well enough alone. His attempt is about as Greek as the language in which he wrote it.

With that in mind, cut away with me to a quiet, mid-summer's night in an Iowa cornfield. Darkness is settling. Crickets are chirping. Gentle breezes are rippling the tassels upon acres of corn, richly buttered by the moonlight. A young man named Ray Kinsella is trudging from field to farmhouse when he hears the voice....a whisper really....sounding something like God with laryngitis or an old baseball announcer. The voice is saying (in words barely audible): "If you build it, he will come." Ray shrugs off the voice and heads for the house. But later that night he hears it again, waking him from a sound sleep. The next day he hears the voice a third time: "If you build it, he will come."

And lest there be any question about their meaning, the words are accompanied by a vision. There is little doubt in Ray's mind that the "it" he is to build is a baseball field....complete with bleachers and bases, fences and foul lines, scoreboards and floodlights, the whole nine yards. And the "he" who will come is Joe Jackson....Shoeless Joe Jackson....who, in the opinion of Ty Cobb, was the greatest left fielder ever to play the game.

Shoeless Joe never learned to read and write, but he created legends with his bat and glove. A famous sports writer once wrote that Joe Jackson's glove was the place where triples went to die. Shoeless Joe played a dozen years in the big leagues, but the ending of his career was not of his choosing. He was the left fielder for the Chicago White Sox when they won the American League pennant in 1919. They were subsequently accused of "throwing" the World Series to the Cincinnati Reds. For their alleged involvement with gamblers, the team was dubbed the "Black Sox," and eight players were suspended from baseball for life. The most notable of these was Shoeless Joe Jackson. It was that suspension that caused one disbelieving little boy to utter the immortal line: "Say it ain't so, Joe." But all Joe said in response was: "It's so." And evidently it was.

Ray Kinsella was raised on Joe Jackson stories by his father, Johnny Kinsella, who once lived in a rooming house across the street from Comiskey Park. He also caught a few games of Class B ball in his all-too-brief career. Ray's daddy went to his grave believing that Joe Jackson was innocent....that he was framed....and that the whole thing was just another example of the powerful oppressing the poor. For, in those days, baseball players were neither well paid nor well treated. They were virtual pawns of a management system that abused and underpaid them.

Ray's father was quick to point out that Joe Jackson hit .375 against the Reds in the 1919 Series. In addition, he played errorless ball and banged out 12 hits. To Ray's dad, that didn't sound like the record of a man trying to "throw" a game. But not enough other people bought that logic. After the 1920 season, when Shoeless Joe hit .382, he was never allowed to play in the "bigs" again. He drifted from one semi-pro league to another, usually playing under an assumed name. If honor and glory ever do come his way, he won't be around to take a bow....given that he died (in relative obscurity) in 1951.

But Ray Kinsella....trusting the voice and obeying the vision....is certain that Shoeless Joe will come to his field, once he builds it. Concerning that vision, Ray says:

Occasionally the time and place are right, when all the cosmic tumblers click into place, and the universe opens up for a few seconds....or a few hours....and shows you what is possible.

What a marvelous line. What he's saying is that every now and then things just seem to click and the heavens open, giving a glimpse of how it is all going to work out.

Now if you are about to say, "Come on, Ritter, that's the dumbest thing I ever heard," remember that Martin Luther King said the same thing in his Memphis speech the night before he died. He was talking about the Civil Rights Movement. And he was saying that the movement would go on, even though he would not get to go on with it. He said he had been to the mountain....all the way to the top....and that he had been privileged to look over to the other side. And what he glimpsed convinced him that everything was going to be all right.

Moments ago, we read the same thing in the twenty-first chapter of Revelation. Revelation is a strange book....more allegory than history. It is told as a grand vision. And the man to whom the vision comes is someone named John. We think he was an exiled bishop of the early Christian church in Asia Minor. He appears to have been imprisoned....being held on a Mediterranean island named Patmos....during a period when Christians were being zealously persecuted by Rome.

The language of the book is called the language of Apocalypse, which means that it is concerned with someone's vision of how things are going to end up. And in chapter 21, John says that he was, for a moment, transported into heaven in order to receive just such a vision. I don't have the faintest idea what that means....or how that happened. Was it a dream? An ecstatic experience? A photographic revelation? A sudden blip on the radar screen of consciousness? Was John fast-forwarded in time (by God) in order to allow him to drink in the future, before being rewound into ordinary time? Was John's vision an answer to prayer? A projection of the imagination? The result of a hallucinogenic? Darned if I know. But, then, I don't claim to know how Martin Luther King glimpsed the Promised Land either. But when he talked about it, I listened. And I found I was leaning forward as I listened. So maybe Ray Kinsella has it figured out as well as anybody. Perhaps there are times when all the cosmic tumblers do click into place and the universe opens up for a few seconds, giving a glimpse of what is possible.

In the twenty-first chapter of Revelation it is not a ballpark that John sees, but an entire city. The city is like a virgin bride being presented to her husband. New Jerusalem is the city's name. Old Jerusalem was to have been the perfect city. But at the time of John's vision, Old Jerusalem is under siege.....sacked and burning.

The new city will be a place of peace and harmony. That's what John says. God himself will be there. It will be like the Garden of Eden all over again. Things will be like they were before the Fall....before we messed things up. Once again, God will walk through the city in the cool of the evening.

It will be a city without violence....without pain.....without tears. God will be like a mother comforting her children, wiping every last tear from their eyes. There shall be no more death in the city....meaning that the thing we fear more than any other will be relegated to the scrap heap that we call "former things."

And it will be a city without churches. There will be no temple there. To my friend who says he doesn't want to go to heaven if it is going to be like a boring church service, this will be good news indeed. There won't be any churches, temples, synagogues, cathedrals, or wayside chapels, says John. That's because God will be right there with us. Therefore, we will have no need for special places, set apart for the purpose of meeting him.

There will be neither sun nor moon in the city. The dazzling brightness of God's glory....and the "lamp" that we call Jesus Christ....will give us all the light we need.

And, most significantly, all the nations will be there. Even the pagan nations. Which means that the barriers we build to separate us, one from another, will have come down. It will be a city without walls or other visible lines of demarcation. And good will triumph in the city because no one will be there who is unclean, loathsome or false. And speaking as one who is occasionally unclean, loathsome and false, I trust that the absence of such folk from heaven will have more to do with the fact that God is cleaning us all up, rather than kicking us all out.

And that's John's version of how it all comes out. If that seems archaic and fanciful to you, let me return you (one more time) to Ray Kinsella's farm in Iowa....where Ray hears the voice, builds the park, and Shoeless Joe Jackson comes. Yes, he really comes. But not everybody can see him. Half the town thinks Ray is crazy....plowing up two and half acres of perfectly good corn to build a ball diamond. It gives you an idea of how Noah's neighbors must have treated him. But Ray's wife never wavers. Neither does Ray's daughter. For they seem to know that some voices need to be heard and heeded. And they can see the ball players, too.

For Shoeless Joe brings his friends with him. His seven suspended teammates from the Black Sox come and play. As do others. But the Black Sox are the "home team" on this diamond. Every night, when the lights come on, the players walk onto the field. They come out of the corn which rims the outfield. When the game ends, they disappear into the corn from whence they came. Ballplayers just kind of come and go....to and from the corn. And the corn, of course, is death. But the corn never seems like such a terrible place. It's just the corn. That's all it is. Dying is nothing more than walking into it. And whatever follows dying is nothing more than walking out of it. It is remarkably unfrightening.

I've always had a strange fantasy about dying. I don't know where it comes from. But I figure that death will be like walking into a woods I have walked into hundreds of times before. Only, this time, I won't come out....at least not by the way I went in. Then somebody introduced me to that marvelous line about Enoch. It was said that Enoch was a man who walked with God. Then one day God and Enoch walked further than they had ever walked before....and kept on walking.

But if the corn is Kinsella's symbol for death, then the baseball diamond is Kinsella's symbol for heaven. The ballpark is his Apocalypse....his vision....his glimpse of how it all turns out. At one point, Shoeless Joe turns to Ray and says: "Is this heaven?" To which Ray says: "No, it's Iowa." But the longer we watch the movie, the less certain we are as to which is which.

There are some marvelous subplots that keep the story moving. One night Ray hears the voice a second time and it says: "Ease his pain." Six months of research later, he realizes that the "pain" he is supposed to "ease" belongs to a once-famous author, now living in seclusion on the east coast. In the book, the author is J.D. Salinger. In the movie, it is Terrance Mann (played brilliantly by James Earl Jones). Ray realizes that the author's pain has something to do with baseball, and that no healing will take place apart from baseball.

Then, while author and farmer are watching a baseball game at Fenway Park, a third message comes during the fourth inning. This message encourages them to "go the distance." They become convinced that "going the distance" means setting off for Chisholm, Minnesota in order to find Moonlight Graham (who once played half an inning for the New York Giants in 1909 and never got a chance to bat).

Sooner or later, everybody makes it back to Iowa and appears at the ballpark (which may or may not be heaven). And the games constitute a wonderful vision of what the end is going to be like.

The Black Sox are playing again (as the home team, no less). The horrible past has been wiped out. The suspensions have been served. The scandal has been forgiven....forgotten....vindicated. The slate is clean.

Moonlight Graham, who only got to play half an inning in the field in 1909....and who never came to bat....gets to play a whole game now.

What does it all mean? I think this is what it means. As concerns the great game of life, I think that those who played it once....and who played it wrong....may get a fresh chance to play it over. Moreover, I think that those who never got much of a chance to play at all....especially those who were taken by death before they could get a bat in their hands (in order to see what they could do)....get a chance to play at last. For I think heaven is going to represent a second chance for those who blew the first one, and a fresh chance for those who never got one. That's what I think it means.

But there is one thing more. There is something else in the vision....something having to do with reconciliation. In the movie we are given the impression that Ray Kinsella's father not only died young, but died estranged from his son. So it becomes inevitable that this ballpark in the cornfield is going to be the scene of some "coming together" of father and son. That's because such reconciliations are as necessary as they are desirable. In our other text....the one from the Sermon on the Mount....Jesus said that if there is someone with whom you need to make it right, leave your gift on the way to the altar....go find that person....make it right....and then approach the altar together. And if Jesus really meant that....assuming that he wasn't talking just to hear himself talk....I suppose it is also possible that none of us are going to enjoy the fruits of heaven until we complete the same requirement.

At any rate, the moviegoer knows that Field of Dreams cannot end before one more figure appears in uniform....namely, an obscure Class B catcher named Johnny Kinsella. So, one day, as the game breaks up (and the players begin to drift toward the corn), father and son meet at last. They talk a little baseball. Then slowly, and with some hesitation, they begin a game of catch. And that's the third part of the vision. Not only are past wrongs going to be forgiven and missed opportunities going to be granted, but those who are separated from us now are going to be one with us then.

* * * * *

Some years ago, from this very pulpit, I preached a pair of sermons based on that wonderful Hebrew concept known as "The Blessing." In them, I talked extensively about my father. If you were present then, you know that he died a long time ago....31 years this week, and two months after the birth of his first-ever grandchild (who was my firstborn son).

And if you were listening carefully, you know that my father died feeling that his life had been largely unfulfilled. But, then, I suppose my son felt the same way when he died 27 years after his grandfather....the grandfather who barely knew him when.

But my father and my son were very much alike in another way. Each loved the game of baseball. Each followed the ballet of baseball. Each devoured the statistics of baseball. Each debated the subtleties of baseball. And it was around the subject of baseball that I was able to draw close to each....especially at times when other avenues were closed or unavailable. My son managed a team (somewhat successfully) in a rotisserie baseball league. And my father was fond of saying that he would have given his right arm to be able to play the game well.

Therefore, if Kinsella's vision even remotely resembles God's plan, I trust that they have found each other....and that the sound of horsehide meeting leather, even now, punctuates the sweetness of their coming together. But just in case they haven't, I trust that at least one of you will remember to slip a baseball into my casket when I die.

Note: Portions of this sermon were originally preached (under the same title) in 1987. At that time, I acknowledged a debt to Mark Trotter for his treatment of a similar theme. Mark preaches in San Diego where his beloved Padres are currently making a serious run toward a divisional championship and (Mark hopes) much more. As one who is suffering through a fifth consecutive losing season with the Detroit Tigers, I wish Mark and the Padres well (beneath a veil of thinly-disguised envy).

For those interested in an earlier treatment of a similar theme, see my sermon entitled "Visions of Wrigley Field on a Saturday Afternoon," September 28, 1997.