Sermon:
November 1, 1998

Scripture:
Matthew 7:24-29

While driving a rental car down Highway 25 from Denver to Colorado Springs, I listened to one of those phone-in debates that have become increasingly popular on "talk radio." The question being: "Which household pet is smarter, your cat or your dog?" Which did not surprise me, given that I've heard it before. What did surprise me, however, was the phoned-in suggestion that your pig could outsmart them both ... assuming (of course) that you had a pig and could find some way to measure his or her intellect.

Since that time, I have had several people lend support to that argument, some of whom actually sounded like they knew what they were talking about. All of which is beyond me ... or above me. All I know of pigs is that I once learned to count by identifying each of my five toes by a particular little piggy (as to whether he went to market, stayed home, had roast beef, had none, or cried "wee, wee, wee, wee" all the way home).

I also remember Piglet (from the Winnie the Pooh stories), who seemed to be of moderate intelligence, certainly brighter than Pooh ... who, as I remember, often referred to himself as being "a bear of very little brain." Then there was Porky Pig, Petunia Pig, and (in more recent years) Miss Piggy and Babe. But history's most famous pigs were the three who built houses, only one of which proved to be wolf-proof. Moral being: "When there's a hungry wolf at your door, straws and sticks don't cut it ... but bricks do."

The wolves, of course, have a different spin on that. They claim they have been misunderstood for years, suffering severely in the "reputation" department. In fact, they recently told me their version of the "Three Little Pigs" story, the better to remove the stigma of "big, bad wolf" forever.

In their version, they claim that there was once a wolf who, in the process of making a birthday cake for his sainted grandmother, ran out of sugar. So he went to the home of his neighbor who just happened to be a pig. But, with cup in hand (and in the middle of making his request), he felt a sneeze coming on. For this was a wolf with allergies, and the pig's straw house was ripe with stuff that would trigger allergies. So the wolf tried to stifle his sneeze (by huffing and snuffing), which only made it worse, once it came. And when you couple a ferocious wolf sneeze with a flimsy straw house ... .well, you get the picture. The house turned into a pile of straw. And there, in the middle of the mound, lay the first little pig ... deader than a doornail. So the wolf ate him. I mean, it's in the genes of a wolf to eat piggies ... and, besides, this one was already dead.

Then it was on to the second house. Slightly better house. Slightly smarter pig. But not by much. Same request ("A cup of sugar, if you please, so I can finish the cake for my saintly old grandmother"). Same sneeze (given that there are a host of nose-twitching allergens in a stick-house, too). Same outcome (another pile ... another meal).

On went the wolf to the third house (better house ... brick house). Same query ("Some sugar for my cake"). Same sneeze (even though there's no allergens in bricks, once you start sneezing, it can be hard to stop). Different ending, however. The house didn't come down. And the pig didn't come across with any sugar. Whereupon the wolf (taking the pig's inhospitable attitude as an insult to his grandmother) temporarily "lost it" and started a mild ruckus. Which happens in the best of neighborhoods. And lo, wolves have been labeled and "big and bad" ever since.

"It simply isn't fair," the wolves told me ... even as they went on to give their version of that messy business with the little girl in the red outfit.

Now, I don't know what to make of all that. What I do know is that the juxtaposing of standing house/falling house is a recurring literary theme in any number of cultures, even to the point of surfacing in the Sermon on the Mount (as the concluding, knock-`em-dead-in-the-aisles illustration, no less).

If you hear these words of mine and do them, you will be like a wise woman who built her house upon a rock ... but if you hear these words of mine and do not do them, you will be like a foolish woman who built her house upon the sand.

And in the short run, Jesus said, the difference won't amount to a hill of beans. Until the storm comes, that is. Until the storm comes.

I changed the gender of the house-builder ("wise woman, foolish woman"), not because scripture warrants it, but because you need it ... the better to grab your attention and force you to listen to an old text with new ears. I noticed how many of you snapped to attention when I declared both builders to be female. But, for purposes of interpretation, the sex of the builder is secondary to the location of the building. Build it on rock, it'll stand. Build it on sand, it'll fall.

But to understand that, you need a geography lesson. The Judean hills are crisscrossed with pleasant sandy hollows ... nicely sheltered ... just perfect for housing. Except for a couple of weeks each year ... at the end of the rainy season. Which is when these hollows became known by their rightful name which is "wadis" or streambeds. Water comes rolling off the mountain (what with Jerusalem being 2700 feet above sea level) and rushes toward the Jordan Valley (which, at its lowest point, is over 1700 feet below sea level). Water surging through a wadi can take a house with it. Or, as tour groups are often told, water surging through a wadi can take a 51-passenger bus with it. Meaning, don't build there, because (when the rains come) you can't stay there.

I'm always amazed at people who build (and rebuild) in places where prudence tells them not to. There's their house, sitting halfway out in the water ... leaning halfway off the cliff ... smack dab in the middle of flood country, hurricane country, earthquake country or forest fire country. Then disaster comes ... as everybody told them it would come ... and, looking like drowned rats (having been just rescued by a rowboat), a television reporter shoves a microphone in their mouth and asks: "Will you go back when it's over?" To which they answer: "Sure, we'll go back. This only happens every three or four years." And we, watching at home, give them points for their persistence ... albeit not for their brilliance.

But this text is not just for those who build houses in Myrtle Beach, but for those who build lives anywhere. For storms will come to every house, Jesus seems to be saying, and will test the mettle of occupants everywhere.

Like most of you, I have been reading about this messy business in Grosse Pointe ... alternately saying: "My God, this is awful," and "Thank God, it isn't us." All the while knowing that it could very well be us (at some time in the future), and probably has been us (at some time in the past).

You know the rough outline of the story. Older boys. Younger girls. Parties ... too private. Booze ... too abundant. Sex ... too illegal (quite apart from whether it was consensual or coerced). Leading to big time accusations ... big time trials ... along with big time name-calling, finger-pointing, side-taking and blame-dropping. It's amazing how the poor choices of teenagers (and adults) can make suburban sewers overflow, faster than any storm that descends from the heavens. When there is a stink in the city, it usually has more to do with human nature than with mother nature.

But of special interest ... at least to me ... have been the statements of the two parents who have chosen to go public. They said that they moved to Grosse Pointe, three and a half years ago, because they wanted to provide a safe haven for their daughters and figured they had found one. They carefully researched the community before making the move. They drove around the cul-de-sacs. They walked through the school corridors. They talked to the villagers. "Everything seemed so clean," they said, "and everyone seemed so nice." So they moved in and figured they were home free.

But "nice and clean" (while certainly not to be sneezed at ... after all, I like "nice and clean") do not automatically include "wise and good." Not that these parents are blaming the town, mind you. But they are blaming themselves for their misguided belief that the "right town" could guarantee the right outcome. It can't. And it didn't. The right town can protect the investment you have in your property (after all, why do the real estate moguls keep talking about "location, location, location?"). But it will take other things to protect the investment you have in your children.

Which is what Jesus seems to be saying in this little parable. Don't build on sand. Build on rock. And what is that rock? "These words of mine," he says. They are the rock. All of which makes me wonder. How many of these Grosse Pointe kids were in a church youth group, a Bible study class, a Confirmation program, or a CYO or Young Life organization? Not that there's any guarantee there, either. "Prodigals" ... which is a name that probably fits us all at some time or another ... can resist, or run, from even the best of churches. But when you're actively resisting something, it's still a force in your life. And when you're running from something, your memory is subconsciously recording the route back. And if the Word of the Lord is the rock, where (in this culture) is that rock unwrapped and unfolded, discussed and debated, revered and remembered, polished and practiced, if not in the church?

Lyle Schaller writes that the most important question asked by church-shoppers born since 1955 is not: "Is it big or small, near or far, high or low, contemporary or traditional, or the denomination of our parents as opposed to one we've never heard of?" Rather, the most important question asked by church seekers born since 1955 is: "Can you help us raise our kids?" And woe be unto any congregation that shrugs its shoulders, lowers its head or turns its back in response to such a query.

Friends, I think we're answering it. I think we're doing it. In fact, I think we're doing a lot of things. There are things being built here that are looking pretty good and are grounded pretty deep. I think this church is going to be able to stand on its pins when it's tested. And I think this church is going to stand by your side when you're tested. It's more than strong walls. Although, after nearly half a decade, we've got to worry about the walls, patch the walls, paint the walls, run computer wire through the walls, and occasionally push out a few walls. But it's never walls for walls' sake ... but what goes on within `em, and what goes on beyond `em.

I pray to God that you sense that. I pray to God that you feel that. I pray to God that you are finding yourself to be a part of that . But even if you aren't, I pray that you're willing to support that. Because with the wild crosswinds blowing today, it's imperative that you weigh in somewhere ... or stand behind something.

"What Will You Build?" is this year's stewardship theme. Not "What Will You Watch Being Built ... Observe Being Built ... or Critique Being Built." It costs nothing to be a sidewalk superintendent. Anybody can do that. And some are doing that. Not many. But some. Which may include you.

If so, let me make it easy for you. If you want a reason not to pledge ... not to give ... not to get involved ... come see me. I'll help you find one. We'll start with the budget. We'll go through it line by line. I'm sure you'll find something you won't like ... don't believe in ... can't support. And if we don't find it in the budget, we'll go to the drawer where Janet keeps my old sermons. We'll go through them, line by line. Surely I have said something in the last six months ... six weeks ... six minutes ... which has offended you. And if I didn't, I'm sure Matt did. Or Linda. Or Carl. Or perhaps Chris and Doris went too many weeks without striking your chord, singing your song, or ringing your chime. You want a reason? I'll help you tear this old house apart until you find one.

But I am betting the farm that for every parishioner tearing up floorboards looking for the flaw, there are ten others heading for the roof, looking for the future. Which is why we are going to do something radically different right now. I am going to stop the sermon for a few brief moments and we are going to do a little exercise together. Bob Stoner (and his crew of helpers) are going to pass out bricks ... unconstructed bricks ... cardboard bricks ... .creased and ready for assembling. And once you get one in your hand, I'm going to encourage you to fold it. Should you need help, people in the aisles are going to help you. Or maybe you are going to reach over and help each other (which sounds like a properly "churchy" thing to do). And, while putting your brick together, I'm going to encourage you to take note of the words printed on the facing of the brick ... words like "trust," "faith," "belief," "relationships," "mission" (those sorts of words). Then, in a minute or two, I'm going to tell one final story ... we're going to sing a hymn ... and then you're going to take your brick home as a reminder of all that we're trying to build ... and all that you're helping to build.

* * * * *

In this day and age, there is a rapidly shrinking middle ground. You are either wise or foolish ... missionaries or mission fields ... parts of the solution or parts of the problem...actively engaged in a ministry of "building things up," or participants in the systems by which things are being trashed and dismantled.

Which brings me to this small slice of dialogue from John Steinbeck's play, "The Short Reign of Pippen IV." The king comes in disguise to the little French town of Gambais where he notices (as he nears the castle) that a bust of Pan has been removed from its pedestal and thrown into the moat. Pippen asks an old man: "How did it get in the moat?"

"Oh," says the man, "someone pushed him in. They always do. Sometimes two or three times a year."

"But why?" asks the king.

"Who knows?" says the old man. "There's people who push things in the moat. Pretty hard work, too. There's just people who push things in the moat."

After watching for awhile, the king asks gently: "Are you the owner of this property?"

"No," says the old man, "I just live here abouts."

"Then why do you pull them out?" asks the king.

"Don't rightly know," says the old man. "I guess there's people that pull things out, that's what they do. I guess that's how things get done."

Some people push things in. Other people pull things out. In a world filled with the former, don't you think God deserves a church, peopled with the latter?

Note: This sermon owes its theme to First Church's stewardship campaign entitled "What Will You Build?" The wolf-friendly version of the Three Little Pigs story comes from a satire entitled "The True Story of the Three Little Pigs" by A. Wolf (as told to Jon Scieszka, illustrated by Lane Smith). The quote from John Steinbeck's play first surfaced in a book by Ernest Campbell entitled The Christian Manifesto.

Let the record further show that the ushers passed out unconstructed bricks (as noted in the sermon) and the congregation proceeded to put them together with great relish and enthusiasm.