Sermon:
June 27, 1999

Scripture:
Romans 12: 1-2
Romans 12: 9-21

Under the general heading of "the older one gets, the faster time flies," I would note that this morning begins my seventh year in this place ... doing this thing ... in the midst of this congregation ... and in the service of this Lord. Not a long time by some standards (given that my four immediate predecessors all hung around for a decade or more.) But given the turn-over rate nationally (for Methodist preachers and others of note), seven ought to count for something. My Presbyterian colleague next door arrived one month before I did. And he announced, just last week, that he is moving on.

Major league baseball ... which loves statistics ... now has a new category of " stats" to measure and record. It's called "quality starts." A quality start is any time a starting pitcher finishes six innings and yields three runs or less. The implication being that lasting into the seventh inning is unusual, bordering on the exceptional. Friday night, Brian Moeller went nine innings for the Tigers. And that was the first time it had happened all season.

My friends in the school business tell me that both superintendencies and college presidencies tend to be shorter than they have ever been in history ... 3-5 years, on average. Meaning that wanting such jobs is one thing, getting them is a second thing, but keeping them is a third (and infinitely harder) thing. What's more, it is now widely assumed that five years is all you can expect out of a television sit-com, given that story lines tend to go stale after the 100^th episode. And sit-coms have entire teams of writers ... who only need to create 22 minutes of material, for a mere 26 episodes per year. Pulpits are the only places where re-runs are frowned upon ... if not outright prohibited.

So I feel grateful for this opportunity ... for this venue ... and for this collegiality of effort we call ministry at First Church.

Of a preacher ... you ask a great deal.

To a preacher ... you offer a great deal.

With a preacher ... you accomplish a great deal.

But enough mutual back-patting. On with it. Or, as we should say on "Elevator Dedication Sunday" ... up with it!

Let me begin with a recent conversation. It occurred at one of those events where, because the dinner was overly-long in coming, the guests were overly-long in mingling. You understand that. You've been there.

Which is how it came to pass that Kris and I spent the major slice of an hour with a government official from a neighboring Oakland County community. Being from Birmingham, we got to talking about house size, lot size, land-use permits, deed restrictions, and related matters of development. In response to which, the official shared a number of horror stories about local citizens fighting over this, violating that, abusing something else, claiming exemptions and demanding exceptions ... all in the name of special needs, special problems or special interests.

To which I said: "Doesn't anybody ever say (after reviewing such matters with you):

Yes, this is what I want to do. But I see (now that you have pointed it out to me) that what I want to do is not necessarily in keeping with my neighbor's needs, the city's needs or the environment's needs. So I'll go back to the drawing board and see if I can come up with something more mutually agreeable ."

In response to which, she gave me a most incredulous look ... followed by an equally incredulous laugh ... as she said: "Reverend, you must live in some kind of fantasy world."

Well, no and yes. No, I don't like to think so. Yes, I probably do. Let's start with my "No."

Two weeks ago ... in my baccalaureate sermon ... I bristled at any suggestion that high school students and Methodist preachers are not yet members of the "real world." As concerns the high school kids, I would contend that their world is as "real" as it gets. But so is mine. As a card-carrying member of the Preacher's Union, I am here to tell you that, like everyone else, my taxes come due ... my bills pile up ... my car breaks down ... my body gets old ... food still spoils in my refrigerator ... worry still festers in my heart ... streets are no safer for me, than for anybody ... and eventually (if not permanently) death will come creepin' `roun' my door.

And all of us preachers know that the churches we serve are not havens of innocence. Like the ark that once carried the future of each species to the higher, dryer land of God, the church ... once it gets two or three days out to sea ... tends to smell as it sails. I do not know a preacher who, if he or she set out to chronicle the horrible things that sometimes happen in churches, could not fill a book. Or a library.

Which is not because churches have grown worse over time. We were never innocent. And we always smelled. Every once in a while I hear someone say: "Oh, if we could only get back to the purity of the first century church." As if the church, fifty years out from Jesus, was the New Testament's institutional equivalent of the Garden of Eden. To such suggestions, I find myself wanting to say: "Hello ... what Bible have you been reading?" When I read the book of Acts ... the letters of Paul ... the Pastoral Epistles ... the advice offered to the seven Asia Minor churches in the Book of Revelation ... it makes this congregation look like a poster child for ecclesiastical purity and perfection.

Go read the stuff in the Bible. You want to see church fights? I'll show you church fights. You want to see harassed preachers? I'll show you harassed preachers. You want to see people welching on their vows ... holding back their money ... selling out their faith ... putting down their neighbors ... ignoring the widows and orphans ... rushing to the front of the food line so they can pile their plates high with all the good stuff (before it runs out) ... getting sloshed on communion wine ... or heading for the parking lot saying: "That's it. I'm outta here." at the slightest provocation? I'll show you that stuff, too. It's all in there. Because it's all in us. That's why it's in there.

And while we preachers have long since surrendered the notion that the church is innocent, we know that (as individual church members) you are far from innocent either. Even though (at the outset) you tend not to cuss in front of us, spit in front of us, drink, smoke or chew in front of us, or show your moral and spiritual warts in front of us. But you can't keep it up. Sooner or later, we preachers are going to see it all, hear it all, and learn it all. At least if we're any good, we are. Because, at some point, you will have little choice but to pick even your most carefully-covered scabs in our presence. And we, in yours. Even if we emulate the Jews and cover our heads out of respect for all that is holy, whatever (pray tell) will we do with our feet....which are perpetually dirty....given that they are made of clay.

No, my dear local government official, I don't live in a fantasy world. I have seen it all. I once conducted a funeral for several severed parts of a body, stuffed in plastic bags and thrown in a dumpster. Twice I have counseled men charged with criminal sexual offences against minor children. Daily I rub up against reminders that (although the spirit be willing), the flesh is incredibly weak. There is no protection from the "real world" in my world. The secret is to last this long without letting it get to you.

But the paradox of it is ... the life-giving, career-saving, faith-restoring paradox of it is ... that my world is different. And by "different", I mean "better." So much better, that it sometimes seems fantasy-like.

I want to tell you when I learned that. I learned that a dozen years ago when I served a couple of terms as president of a Homeowners Association ... up north ... where I sometimes hang out, when I'm not hanging out here. We have a cluster of homes in our little community. Some of them face Grand Traverse Bay. Others face a harbor, dredged out of Grand Traverse Bay. In the early years, it was difficult for the Bay people and the Harbor People to be friends. We were like the farmers and the cowboys of the stage musical "Oklahoma." Our interests were different. Our needs were different. And, more to the point, the costs of meeting our interests and needs were different. The first Association meeting I ever attended (as a new homeowner) was brutal. The president was being skewered and eaten alive, without benefit of being barbequed and marinated first. And he was the new president.

Late in the meeting, I voiced a moderate ... and (to some) a logical ... way out of a dilemma. Whereupon, I because the next president. They knew I was a preacher. They knew I didn't know anything about dredge contracts, aquatic weed maintenance, mosquito control, or dealing with the Army Corps of Engineers. But they figured people might not yell so loud if they were yelling at a preacher. And they might not yell so often, if that preacher lived 240 miles away.

All told, my two years went pretty well. But I learned something from the experience. I learned that most people show up at a property owner's meeting to protect their interests ... and their investments. They want to make sure that if anybody gets anything, they will get theirs. And they want to make certain that nothing close to their hearts will get diminished, devalued, or destroyed in the process. They will yield to "the good of the organization," as long as there is personal benefit in it for them. And they will lend an occasional hand at a community project, so long as you ask softly, make no assumptions, accept all excuses and don't go back to the same well too many times in a row.

Once I understood this, I led quite effectively. But I first had to rid myself of any misguided notion that a collection of homeowners resemble ... in any way, shape or form...the church of Jesus Christ.

To be sure, churches are sometimes myopic, naval-gazing and self-serving. But not all the time. And, here, not even much of the time. Churches realize, when they stop to think about it, that theirs is a different agenda. It is an agenda that includes opening more doors than they close, holding more hands than they clench, giving more money than they hoard, and existing (both evangelically and missionally) to serve a bunch of people who aren't even on the scene. I have yet to serve a church that didn't understand (at some level of its being) that sacrifice was a part of its charter, and the only way it was going to have a life (institutionally) was to lose its life for Jesus and the Kingdom. To someone outside the church, that language is gobbledygook. To someone inside the church, that language is second nature.

I am a part of some wonderful non-church organizations. I joined one of them because ... like First Church ... they have four openings for clergy. It's a place with a lovely dining room, some very nice public rooms, a six-lane baptismal font and an incredible lawn on which to play. What's more, they are incredibly attentive to my needs over there. Every couple of months they want to know if I am happy ... if they are doing enough for me ... if there's any new amenity which they could offer me. I mean, they couldn't be nicer. They know my name. They know my wife's name. They even know my car's name (and color.) Every time I arrive, they say things like: "How are you doing today, Dr. Ritter ... great to see you, Dr. Ritter ... gee you're looking good, Dr. Ritter." All they ask is that, if I play with my ball on their lawn, I do it in four hours or less. Plus, they don't want me to wear blue jeans. I can wear pink and green checkered pants. But I can't wear jeans. That's all they ask. That ... and a monthly check.

But my instinct tells me that a steady diet of organizations catering primarily to me, probably isn't all that good for me. Which brings me back to the church, don't you see. Here, we ask all kinds of amazing things ... along with your check. We ask for your time. We ask for your talent. We ask for your prayers. We ask that you teach, work, sing and serve. We ask that you turn a second cheek, offer a second garment, travel a second mile and forgive a second time. We ask that you feed hungry people, visit lonely people, comfort sick and dying people, and prop up physically and emotionally lame people. We ask that you fan out in the world and (as I said last week) rub up against people in ways that make a difference. And we even ask you to volunteer for crosses....not just bear them.

And the amazing thing is that you do. So we escalate our expectations, to the point of asking patently ridiculous things like prayers for those who persecute you and mercy for those who abuse you. And, miracle of miracles, you occasionally do that, too.

Barbara Brown Taylor recently wrote of her nephew Will's first birthday party. At that point in his life, he was round and bald as a Buddha, still hovering on the verge of speech. As an only child, he was accustomed to being the center of attention. He wasn't really spoiled, in that he had not yet learned to manipulate the love of others for his own ends. But he was comfortable in the fact that people seemed to like him for who he was. Which is why he felt quite open and free to love them back.

It was a good party. Just a handful of family ... along with his Godparents and their seven-year-old son Jason. Along with cake ... of course. Presents ... of course. Singing ... of course. And then Will doing a little one-year-old dance (kind of a twirl, really) which everyone decided to admire and imitate ... of course.

Which was when Jason finally had all he could take. So he charged Will in mid-dance, pushing him down to the floor ... which Will hit, first with his rear-end, then with his head. Crack! Will looked utterly surprised at first. After all, no one had ever hurt him before, and he didn't quite know what to make of it. Then he commenced to howl. But not for long. His mother reached for him, cradled him, hugged him and kissed his head better. But he didn't stay with his mother very long. Instead, he tottered back over to Jason. He knew that whatever had happened, Jason was at the bottom of it. But since no one had ever been mean to him before, he didn't know what "it" was. So he did what he had always done. He put his arms around Jason and lay his head lovingly against that mean little boy's body.

And the very fact that you can understand that instinct (and its appropriateness to the Gospel) ... even if you can't always emulate it ... means that you do have a small tent pitched in a world that is not quite like the "real world," and maybe (if I can be mildly arrogant about it) better than the "real world."

I am talking about a world where people do, occasionally, "put on Christ" ... who, as I remember it, once took on all the meanness of the world and ran it through the filter of his own body. And then said: "What you have seen in me, do."

There are those out there who would call that world, "madness." There are those out there who would call that world , "frivolous." And there are those out there who would call that world, "fantasy." But there are those in here who call that world , "home" ... because it just seems to fit, don't you know. It just seems to fit.