Sermon:
August 15, 1999

Scripture:
Mark 6:1-11

The title of this morning's sermon sounds like the oft-repeated refrain of the man they call L.P. (as in Larry Parrish, beleaguered Tiger manager ... for the time being, but apparently not for eternity). In fact, if John Lowe is to be believed, Larry might be history before these words are hardened into print or circulated over the World Wide Web. For not only can't the Tigers win `em all, they can't win many ... or any. Which seems to be getting to everybody. It certainly is getting to Larry who, just last Thursday, admitted he hadn't done anything that would lead anybody to ask him back. But, to my way of thinking, his honesty is so refreshing and rare that, on that characteristic alone, I'd be inclined to give him another shot.

Some say Larry should have seen it coming. After all, Larry replaced Buddy. And the Tigers fired Buddy. Not just because the team was losing, but because Buddy (allegedly) couldn't handle the losing. All those losses got to him ... turned him inward and downward ... made him morose, snappy and short-tempered. "Let's replace Buddy with Larry," said Randy to Mikey. "Larry's an upbeat kind of guy. Losing won't get to him." Now, there's a bandwagon forming to hire Phil Garner, who (just three days ago) got himself fired in Milwaukee. Why? Because, under his leadership, the Brewers have had seven straight losing seasons. Which means that Phil has had a lot of practice in learning how to lose. So let's hire him. Quick ... before the Lions do.

Just last week, I was talking about this with Jay Hook. Jay is Matt's dad. But, as many of you know, Jay was also a pretty fair pitcher when his body was in its prime. Pitched for the Reds. Pitched for the Mets. Compiled some decent statistics. Made some decent money. If you don't believe me, my wife can go on the Internet this afternoon and find you a Jay Hook baseball card. She's already turned up three. There's more out there.

Jay Hook, along with the infamous Roger Craig, once anchored the pitching rotation of the worst baseball team ever. I'm talking about the 1962 New York Mets. In their inaugural season, they somehow managed to lose 120 games. The last game of that season ended when Joe Pignatano hit into a triple play. After which Casey Stengel called his team together for one last word in the clubhouse. "Fellers," Casey said, "don't feel too bad about this. It's been a team effort all the way."

That year, Jay Hook won 8 and lost 19. As he remembers it, 13 or 14 of those losses were by one run. He said he never once walked to the mound, thinking he couldn't win. But he did recall the three-day All Star break at Grossinger's in the Catskills, during which time he told himself that if he continued to take each succeeding loss as he had taken the preceding ones, he'd be a "mental case" by year's end. This, from a guy whose head is screwed on as tightly as any I have ever seen.

Losing can get to you. Ask Barry Sanders. Which would assume, of course, that you could find Barry Sanders. I don't know what is going on in Barry's head. But a lot of people seem to suggest that it has something to do with a reaction to losing. Which means you can write Barry off as a candidate to manage the Tigers ... even though he is currently unemployed.

You can't win `em all. Which is not just my advice to Larry and Barry, but Jesus' advice to Johnny and Jimmy, along with Andy and Petey. Who are they? They are four of the twelve. Jesus is about to send them on their first major mission. So he gives them a few instructions. "Double up. Work cheap. Travel light." Then he concludes with this:

Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave the place. If any place will not welcome you and they refuse to hear you, as you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet as a testimony against them." So they went out and proclaimed that all should repent.

Which sounds remarkably like: "You can't win `em all. So don't delude yourself into thinking otherwise. And don't depress or delay yourself by attempting otherwise." Which is a strange instruction, coming from the lips of one who never regarded any house as hopeless, or any cause as lost. But, as a strategy for ministry, this word from Jesus strikes me as eminently practical ... and more than a little bit liberating. Why? Because I haven't always been able to win `em all.

Now some of you will rush to console me, once this service is over, by telling me that I have won far more than my share. Which is true. I can't deny it. Besides, false humility is not a garment I look good in. I have done all right. But the times when I haven't still grate on my conscience. I replay them over and over, trying to make them come out differently. I should have been more able ... more willing ... more pliable ... more flexible ... more professional ... more spiritual ... quicker to stand my ground ... quicker to fall to my knees ... quicker to do whatever it might have taken to win the one who was less than taken with me.

I don't know anyone in my profession who hasn't been there ... or felt that. Even the ones with "greatness" stamped on them from the get-go. Mark Trotter, whose career as a Methodist preacher is the kind of which legends are made, writes:

When I started out as a minister, I just assumed that with all my degrees and ordinations, success was inevitable. I also assumed that my first church would recognize this finely-honed theological instrument and respond accordingly. That church had about 180 members when I went there. Three years later, when I left, they had 150. I wondered what went wrong. I did everything I could. I worked as hard as I could. But they just sat there ... immovable. I figured I was in the wrong profession. So I went to talk it over with my district superintendent. He confessed: "Mark, we were thinking of closing that church. But then we figured, why not give you a chance and see what might happen."

Mark said that, in retrospect, he realized the superintendent was trying to encourage him. But, at the time, he felt even worse. If the plan was to shut the place down, he wasn't even able to do that. After Mark left, the church limped on a few more years until one of California's earthquakes put it out of its ministry.

People start out in Christian work, don't you see, and are certain that the work will prosper. Because God is in it. Because they have a passion for it. And because they have answered a calling to do it. So it hits them hard when the work is not as easy as they thought ... not "easy" in terms of "relaxed," but easy in terms of "rewarded." Sometimes the rewards are slow in coming. Because not everybody responds. And some who respond, resist.

I read clergy journal after clergy journal that make things sound so simple. "Do this ... preach this ... sing this ... launch this ... and you're sure to have people banging down the doors." Well, sometimes yes. Sometimes no. I've seen two identical preachers do two identical things (in what would seemingly be two identical churches), causing the doors to swing in both. But one pair of doors are swinging in, with people coming. While the other pair are swinging out, with people leaving. You can't win `em all.

There will be times when you will fail. There will be places where you will not be welcome. There will be people who simply won't like you. So if, with the very best of intentions, you have done the very best you can do, don't keep beating up on yourself. Move on. Maybe someone else will do what you couldn't do ... reach who you couldn't reach ... finish what you couldn't finish. You're not the only laborer in the vineyard.

But notice that Jesus didn't say "quit" ... didn't say "sulk" ... didn't say "moan and groan" ... and (especially) didn't say "whine." Most depressed pastors I know suffer from an excess of whine. You can hear it in their voice. Jesus simply said: "Move on" (as in "fish the other side of the boat").

But I still have trouble with this text. It sounds like surrender ... like failure ... like defeat. And I'm a competitive guy. I hate to lose. Which means that I don't toss in many towels in life. But (then) Jesus isn't necessarily saying we should toss in the towel of conviction ... only the towel of location.

You can't win `em all. There is a fascinating example of this in the acts of the Apostles. I am talking about the story of Barnabas and Paul. Both were apostles, meaning that both were commissioned to go out and talk about Jesus and his love. They had a lot in common. They were both immigrants to Jerusalem ... both Gentile Jews. Barnabas was born in Cyprus. Paul was from Tarsus. They shared the same theology. They believed the same things about who Jesus was and what he had come to do.

So when the opportunity came for Paul to finally get work as a Christian missionary, Barnabas (who had interceded on Paul's behalf with the elders in Jerusalem) ran to him with the good news. He was overjoyed that his friend, Paul, could become a missionary of the church. And then the two of them traveled around the Mediterranean together. I tell you, you've got to be good friends to travel around the world together. But that's what they did. Then they reported back to Jerusalem and began making plans for a second journey. Which was when it happened.

Barnabas said: "Let's take Mark with us this time."

To which Paul said: "No! Absolutely not! He's not going with us. He's too immature. He's got to grow up. He started with us on our last journey. Then he dropped out. Left us hanging."

Barnabas replied: "Mark is the most promising young person we have in this movement. We can't afford to lose him. We've got to take him."

Paul said: "No!"

The argument got hotter. Then the text says: "The dispute was so sharp they parted company." But the Jerusalem Bible renders it: "After a violent quarrel, they parted company."

Imagine that. "A violent quarrel." These are Apostles. These are the ones who are supposed to go out preaching reconciliation and peace. But they can't get along among themselves. Which is shocking. As Christians, we're supposed to get along with everybody ... especially fellow Christians.

Which I believe. I've tried to preach that. I've tried to practice that. I've tried to bring people together who managed to alienate themselves from one another, so that we could all be "one in Jesus ... one in the Lord." But here are two Apostles violently disagreeing and deciding to go their separate ways. On the second missionary journey, Barnabas took Mark and Saul took Silas.

They tried it. They tried to get along. They tried to make it up. But they failed. As Mark Trotter notes, there is nothing in the text about them going to sensitivity training. Nothing about them going to company-sponsored workshops to learn interpersonal relations. They just accepted the fact that there was a difference between them. They respected that difference and separated with dignity.

Why do I tell this story? I tell it to show you that such things can happen to the best of people ... in the best of places. This is not a sermon for people who are hanging onto the fringe of Christ. This sermon is for those who are conscientious about following Christ ... doing their darnedest ... trying their hardest ... but who suddenly find themselves in some circumstance, on some committee, in some class, in conversation with some preacher, only to discover that it's just not working. Sure, it's bad. Sure, it hurts. But this text should give us confidence that it's not the end of the world.

As far as this text goes, I'm one of the lucky ones. Wherever I've gone, most doors have been open. Relatively few of them shut. I've never had to shake the dust from my feet. In fact, whenever the Bishop has seen fit to move me, he (or she) has had to pry my feet from the cement of a favorable appointment. And while I have not left kicking and screaming, I've usually left with tears rolling down my cheeks. Longevity has been a comfortable component of my ministry.

And the same is true for many of you. You started in one church. You settled in one church. You stayed in one church. You never thought about moving ... leaving ... changing. Good for you. That's the way it's supposed to work ... ideally. One denomination. One congregation. Won ... derful.

But sometimes it doesn't work out that way. And though I lament that, I understand that. People have got to do what they've got to do. Listen to this little story.

A fellow had been stranded on a desert island for 20 years. Finally, he saw a modern cruise ship which had anchored unusually close to shore in order to permit a little snorkeling. Catching someone's attention, the man was taken on board. After getting himself cleaned up and dressed, he was invited to the captain's table for dinner.

"So," asked the captain, "how did you manage to survive by yourself all those years?"

The castaway pointed at the porthole and said: "By the grace of God. You see those three huts out there on the beach?'

"I see them," said the captain. "You must spend a lot of time in them."

"That's right," said the beach bum. "In the middle hut I live, cook my fish and sleep in a hammock that I made for myself. The hut on the right is where I go to church. Never miss a Sunday. I celebrate Christmas and Easter, give myself communion once a month, and even hold a revival every other year. That's why I've been able to survive so long ... by attending church regularly."

"Amazing," said the captain. "So what about the hut on the left?"

"Oh, that's where I used to go to church."

Why the change? Darned if I know. But, in the ultimate scheme of things, I'm not sure it matters. What I do know is that there's a difference between changing huts and leaving the church. Just as Paul and Barnabas discovered that there's a difference between sailing on separate ships and abandoning the apostalate. Vocation is more than location. Someone once gave me a poster that said: "Bloom where you're planted." Which is good advice. But married to a gardener, I have seem some pretty sickly plants that all but shriveled up and died ... that is, until she dug `em here ... and stuck `em over there ... whereupon they bloomed and blossomed, magnificently.

Every once in a while, I take a sounding of my soul and ask: "Is this still where I need to be?" And I think it is. Yes, I very much think it is. I can't, however, answer for you. I can only hope that you feel the same. Not solely for comfort's sake. But because, come September, you and I have a lot of hard work to do for the Lord.

Note: I am deeply indebted to Mark Trotter of First United Methodist Church, San Diego, for his treatment of this theme. I even "stole" Mark's sermon title. In addition, let me thank David Mosser, my colleague in Graham, Texas, for the story of the man with three huts.