Sermon:
February 14, 1999

Scripture:
Luke 8:43-48
John 1:43-46

Although I make no apologies for the title, my sermon has absolutely nothing to do with deodorants, antiperspirants, mouthwashes or hygiene-related toiletries of any kind. If the purchase a few chemicals will help you draw closer and fear less, be my guest. Now that I've got that out of the way, let me tell you a pair of stories ... one, biblical ... the other, personal.

The first comes from the opening chapter of John's gospel. I alluded to it briefly on Christmas Sunday. But not for the reasons that interest me today. You will remember the setting. Jesus is choosing disciples. Already chosen are Andrew, and Andrew's brother Simon. In John's gospel, Jesus immediately changes Simon's name to "Peter." In Matthew's gospel, Peter doesn't get his new name for 16 chapters and two and a half years. But this is not Matthew's account. This is John's.

The next day, it's on to Galilee. Jesus, Andrew and Peter are walking beside the sea. Which is a lake, really ... given that the Sea of Galilee barely measures 14 miles top to bottom and 8 miles, side to side. There, beside the Galilean lake, Jesus meets Philip. The town is Bethsaida, which literally means "house of fish" ... just as Bethlehem literally means "house of bread." At any rate, when Jesus meets Philip (the Bethsaidan), he says to him: "Follow me." Which Philip does. And whether you think it happened just that quickly ... or whether you think this is John's one-sentence condensation of a three hour conversation ... I will leave up to you. For today's purpose, it matters little.

That's because I am not primarily interested in Philip. I am primarily interested in Nathanael ... who comes next. But I need Philip to get to Nathanael. Literally. Jesus finds Philip. Philip finds Nathanael. Philip tells Nathanael about Jesus: "Look, Nat, I found the main man ... the right guy ... the one of whom Moses and the prophets wrote."

Color Nathanael lukewarm. In fact, I can't make out what Nathanael says next. Because John doesn't print what Nathanael says next. But when I take my head out of the Bible and put my ear to the ground, it sounds like a series of questions.

Who did you find?

What is his name?

Where is he from?

Who are his people?

Which Philip answers as succinctly as he can.

Jesus is his name.

Nazareth is his place.

Joe and Mary are his people.

To which Nathanael says: "Big deal" (although John cleans it up to read: "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?"). Which could just as well be translated: "Can anything good come out of Ecorse ... Centerline ... Paint Creek ... Copper Harbor?" And what does Philip say to that? Nothing. He simply extends an offer: "Come and see. Check it out. Look him over." And that's pretty much it. But I'll return to it later. For the moment, file it. But don't forget it. Definitely, don't forget it.

Now to the personal story. Most of you know that I spent a number of years at Yale. What many of you do not know is that I have, on a few occasions, returned to Yale for its annual Convocation (the better to see old friends and hear new ideas). The Yale Convocation is a four-day event at the Divinity School. Normal classes are suspended. Special seminars are offered. World-renown speakers are invited. And the gems in the schedule are a pair of endowed lectureships (which almost always result in books to be published, once they are crafted as speeches to be delivered).

Therefore, no one attends blindly. Much is known about who one will hear ... and what one will hear. Which I tell you, merely to set a stage. On this particular occasion, I traveled to New Haven drooling over the opportunity to hear the Beecher lecturer, Krister Stendal of Harvard. Now deceased, Stendal was a Lutheran from Sweden, who, better than anyone, knew how to convert New Testament texts into present-day sermons. But as excited as I was to hear Stendal, I was indifferent (even to the point of being uncomfortable) at the prospect of hearing the Taylor lecturer, Dorothee Soelle of West Germany. For I knew her to be something of a saber-rattler in ecclesiastical circles ... a lady famous for writing theology from the starting point of liberation perspectives (oppression, being her primary sin ... emancipation, her primary goal ... and empowerment, her primary strategy for attaining it).

But let me back up. You need to understand that, in the last quarter century, liberation has become a major motif in theology. This is especially true of theology written by oppressed persons (like Hispanics, blacks and representatives of the Third World). And it is especially true of theology being written by persons who believe their oppression to be sexual (as well as racial and political) ... meaning women. Dorothee Soelle would not take offense at being called a "liberationist" or a "radical feminist" ... and probably wouldn't mind if you added the word "socialist" for good measure. She is a very forceful lady, whose nature it is to speak powerfully about power. Hers has been a strident and oft-times critical voice ... made all the more dramatic by the fact that her accent is decidedly Germanic (rather than, shall we say, French).

That was my assessment of Dorothee Soelle, going in. Which, I will admit, was more than a tad defensive. And which explains why I almost blew off her opening lecture. And would have, had it not been for the following line of reasoning.

After all, she did have a world-wide reputation.

After all, I had paid a lot of money to be there.

After all, I was mildly curious.

After all, it was raining.

So I went ... late. My lateness spoke volumes about my openness ... or lack thereof. Most of the time, you and I are late by design. The design may be unconscious. But it is still a design. Very few of us are late accidentally ... or circumstantially. Our lateness is almost always a statement. But of what? That's the $64 question.

At any rate, I was late. The chapel was full. I was directed to an overflow room (an auditorium, in an adjacent building). Her lecture was being piped in. No picture. Just sound. But even at this distance, she came across as harsh and judgmental. She spoke of heavy stuff, hammering it to us in a heavy way. She spoke about the "death wish of the western world." She talked about the rape of the earth, the exploitation of the poor, and the evils of the arms race. She talked about abuses of power in world and church, adding that the real litmus test of "spiritual death in a nation" is not the number of its citizens who disbelieve in God, but the number of its citizens who are kept powerless by the powerful. "The voice of practical atheism," she suggested, "is not the profession of unbelief by those who have fallen away, but the cry of anguish by those who have been stepped over." Then she added that, in her opinion, the United States was in danger of becoming a nation of professing believers and practicing atheists at one and the same time.

But, at the end of her lecture, a softer (almost sensual) word began to come through. "We must, as Christians, get in touch again with creation ... .with our love for everything God has made. Even as the lover knows the smallest detail of the body of the beloved, so (too) must the Christian get in touch with the smallest secrets of the beloved creation." Concerning God the Creator, she asked: "Why did God create the earth?" To which came her answer: "As an antidote to loneliness." And on the subject of God as Lover, came these words: "To make the name of God holy, is to make the love of God real." Which, she added, is harder for most of us to achieve than we might think ... seeing that God loves most of the things we love, but also a whole mess of stuff that we don't.

Which, I thought, was good. I've said similar stuff from time to time. So, since she agreed with me on one or two things, I figured she couldn't be all bad. Therefore, when the time of her second lecture rolled around, I decided to return. Besides, it was still raining.

So I went. And was on time. Barely, on time. There were only a couple of seats left in the Chapel. They were in the last row, behind a pillar. Which meant that I could hear her, but still couldn't see her. I concluded that this was an acceptable arrangement.

The lecture was on the meaning of work. It was another mixed bag of ideas, evoking (in me) another mixed bag of feelings. At the close, she announced that lecture number three would be on the meaning of sex. I decided I would attend, whether it was raining or not. I commented on this to a friend. "Just goes to show you," he said. "Goes to show me what?" I asked. "That you like sex better than work," he answered. Which I let pass without comment.

The next morning splashed brilliant sunshine all over New Haven. The hour for lecture number three approached. I arrived at the chapel, 15 minutes early. Whereupon, I sat in the front row. I concluded that it was more than just the topic. But I wasn't sure exactly what it was. As lectures go, hers was brilliant ... and beautiful. Incisive ... and inspiring. Principled ... and very personal. She talked of God's expectations. But she also shared her story. A wartime lover, lost. Hurtful lessons, learned. Truth fashioned from tears. Laughter extracted from pain. She wasn't so much confessing as reflecting. But the content of her reflection was rock solid. Indeed, her scholarship (over the course of all three lectures) had never been anything but compelling. But it was only with the passing of time ... on this, the third day ... that the lady, herself, became captivating.

A conversation was taking place. It was not merely at the level of ideas, but on the plane of personalities. Suddenly, it mattered to me ... not simply what she thought ... but who she was (this harsh, strident, West German feminist ... this passionate lover of God and God's creation ... this vulnerable lady who hurt, loved, cared and shared so deeply).

And when the lecture ended, I left. I never did speak to her. It wasn't that kind of attraction. But it did occur to me (as I walked from the chapel into the sunshine), that there was a connection between my willingness to move my body (over the course of three days) and her ability to reach my heart. I had started in another room ... located in another building ... where there was sound but no sight. I continued behind a pillar in the back row, only to end up down front. Which gave me cause to wonder. Did I like her better because I moved closer? Or did I move closer as I began to like her better? Was it movement that created comfort? Or did comfort create movement?

I suppose it was both ... although I never sorted it out. What matters, today, is the connection between closeness and comfort. Because there was one, don't you see? Back in my youth ministry days, there was a kid in my senior high MYF whose name was Ron. He was there every week ... although he never said anything to indicate that he was "comfortably there" (if you know what I mean). He was a behavior problem at times. And I especially recall that, every time we put our chairs in a circle, Ron felt the need to move his chair three feet back from everyone else's. Three-feet-removed was his comfortable distance, don't you see? He had a need to be among us. But not quite with us.

And I never thought about Ron again, until I was working with a small group of adults in a rustic retreat setting. We spent two days together in sessions of varying intensities. And there was, in our group, one whose chair always needed to be outside the rest of our chairs. In fact, it became somewhat of a game to try and figure out (during the break times) how to reconfigure the circle so as to bring her into it. But every effort failed. For she, too, had a desire to be among us, mitigated by a fear of being with us.

But I can understand that, given that there is often safety in distance. Zacchaeus chose a tree. "I'll just watch Jesus from the top of this tree," he said. Now Zacchaeus, we are told, was short of inches. But Zacchaeus, we are also told, was short of ethics. I'll leave it for you to figure out which of those factors drove him up that tree. As for me, I don't think he was there to see better. I think he was there to hide better. Which is true of all of us, from time to time. When I worship as a non-preacher, I always sit down front. But when I was a teenager, I often sat in the back row of the balcony ... with my back against the wall. And there are still places where I fade into the fringe ... even as there are settings into which I move, but never fully unpack.

* * * * *

But I promised to return to my text. For I asked you to hold fast to the story of Philip and Nathanael. And, especially, Nathanael's quip: "Can anything good come out of Nazareth ... out of West Germany ... out of the mouth of a radical feminist ... out of the south, the north, the east or the west ... out of the left, the right, the gay or the straight ... out of the town, the gown, the up or the down?" What a defensive posture. But notice this. The purpose of any defensive posture is to maintain maximum distance in order to preserve maximum security.

Therefore, we must learn to read defenses ... especially, our own. We need to pay attention to the people we avoid and the subjects we never talk about. I learn far more about myself by reading my avoidances than by reading my actions. And the best technique Jim Dittes ever taught me about pastoral counseling was "to read people's resistances" ... meaning that I should listen to what they don't say, even more closely than I listen to what they do say ... watching for subjects that are consistently skirted, glossed over, dodged or minimized. Because that's where the "important stuff" can be found.

As a counselor, you can tell when you're getting near one of those places, because you can literally see the defenses going up. So you aim questions at the defenses. Why did Nathanael feel a need to "put down" Nazareth and anybody who was raised there? Why did Ron feel a need to push his chair three feet behind the rest of the teenagers? Why did Zacchaeus take to the tallest tree? Why did I arrive at the chapel, too late to get a seat? What are our avoidances telling us? And who, among our acquaintances, are we afraid to draw near?

"Come and see," says Philip to Nathanael. "Check it out." Which suggests that proximity is important. A woman says of Jesus: "I know that if I can just touch the hem of his garment, I shall be healed." Do you think, even for a moment, that the healing was in the garment? I don't. The healing has more to do with the "coming and the touching" than with the hem or the cloth. The Psalmist says: "O taste and see how gracious the Lord is." But unlike seeing and hearing, tasting is one of those senses that can only be activated when one is but a tongue's-length removed.

Come and see. Proximity is important. I sometimes think about the "electronic church" and wonder why anybody who could "get religion" in person would prefer to get it by television. But the answer is obvious. The religion one gets over television is anonymous. It asks nothing of you, save a finger that can click on the station and a pen that can occasionally (when guilt gets the better of you) write a small check.

Come and see. Proximity is important. I once heard about a fellow who became smitten with a young lady, but couldn't make up his mind about asking her to marry him. He tried and tried to figure it out. Days stretched into weeks. Weeks into months. But even as he weighed and counter-weighed the decision, he was desirous of keeping the attraction alive. So he "kept in touch" by sending a letter a day. Every night he wrote it. Every morning he mailed it. The following day, the mailman delivered it. In the end, proximity won. She married the mailman.

Can anything good come out of ... ? The defense rests.

Whereupon the offense answers:

Come and see.

O taste and see.

Draw me nearer ... nearer ... nearer, precious Lord.

Could it be ... .that in addition to being a head and heart trip, Christianity is (first and foremost) a feet trip? Come on down.