Sermon:
September 12, 1999

Scripture:
Mark 1:9-13

Four churches and 35 years into my ministry, it has finally become clear to me that most choirs sing better than they walk. Children's choirs. Youth choirs. Adult choirs. It's true for all of them. They can sing in perfect pitch, blend in perfect harmony, count in perfect rhythm, but can't walk in perfect step. Some choirs attempt the "lean and sway method" of coming down the aisle ... two counts on the left foot ... two counts on the right foot. But, simple as that seems, halfway down the aisle (when viewed from the balcony) you will see them swaying in opposite directions. Other choirs abandon the attempt to take kindred steps on kindred beats and go "au natural" as it were ... meaning, start on any foot and step on any count, but keep moving forward and try to reach the loft at the same time as your partner. But this is not as easy as it sounds, either. For it assumes that each singer will start, paired with a partner. Have you ever seen singers attempt to find their partner halfway down the aisle? Or have you ever seen singers change partners ... "oops, I should be walking with a soprano, not you" ... midway through the procession? As any choir member will tell you: "Getting there is half the fun. But judge us on how we sound when we open our mouths, rather than how we look when we shuffle our feet."

If there is any denominational exception to the "chaos theory of religious processions," it is surely the Episcopalians. Which is not why we hired Rod. But we will take whatever he brings by way of learned instruction. Episcopalians are "into" processions. Big time "into" processions. They get everybody all dressed up and then they give them some marvelous things to carry as they walk. They have colorful names for everybody in the procession. They also have colorful garb for everybody in the procession. When I talked to Rod about being a liturgist this morning, I told him to take everything out of his closet and wear it. Which, as you can see, he did.

But it never gets any better than an Episcopal ordination, wherein a seminarian's entrance into the priesthood is akin to the coronation of a king. Or, depending upon the liberal spirit of the diocese, a queen. Listen to this description by one astute observer of the Episcopal scene:

I remember one particular ordination I attended at Christ Church, New Haven. It was sometime during the seventies. The procession began with a very agile thurifer who filled the nave with sweet smoke by twirling the incense pot in figure eights over his head. Then came a sea of clergy, separated into their respective orders, by three different sets of crucifers, and three different sets of acolytes. Finally the ordinand appeared, vested in white, surrounded by his sponsors, and followed by the bishop in full ecclesiastical regalia, clumping his crozier on the ground as he walked.

Now I realize I have just used a ton of "churchy" terms that are probably foreign to you. So if you know nothing of "thurifers," "croziers," "crucifers," or even "vestments," seek out Rod after the service ... since he is, by my decree, our new resident expert on things Episcopal and liturgical. But back to the account of this young man's ordination.

The next two hours were something of a blur. But I do remember the moment the ordinand laid down on the floor ... face down on the floor ... face down on the slate and marble floor ... at the foot of the steps to the altar. His body made a perfect cross. I found myself wondering how the cold stones felt upon his cheek. At last he arose and was helped into a gold brocade vestment that, when the light hit it, twinkled like a thousand candles. At which point he went to the altar to serve (as a Deacon) for the very first time.

My ordination was not nearly so impressive. Although, in its dignified simplicity, I remember it still. I did not lay down on the floor. But I did kneel. Hands were laid. Prayers were said. Scriptures were extended. Authority was conveyed. And I was moved. But nothing twinkled in gold. Nor did anything smell of incense.

The process of stretching, cruciform style, on the floor ... prior to rising to be robed in gold ... is symbolic, don't you see. We who would serve Christ ... we who would speak for Christ ... we who would live and lead for Christ ... must first die and rise with Christ. Or as we sang (in the 49^th or 50^th chorus of "Do Lord"): "If you can't bear the cross, then you can't wear the crown."

That young deacon's ordination was obviously memorable. For, as my observer noted: "I was far from the only person present who thought that becoming a deacon must be the next best thing to ascending a throne." But you and I both know that, come Monday afternoon (or Tuesday morning, at the latest), someone at the church told that young deacon that there was a burned out light bulb in the women's bathroom and would he please do something about it before Sunday morning.

I understand the feeling. I came to Christ early. I came to Christ often. I came as a preteen ... as an early-teen ... and as a later (but not all that much wiser) teen. I said "Yes" seven or eight (maybe nine) times. I can remember some of them. But I can't remember all of them. There was this lakeshore and that campfire ... this preacher and that altar. They all blend together now. Mostly, I remember the music. I remember the song I was singing ... the song the choir was singing ... the song that the birds, bees, rocks and trees were singing. I could defend myself against God's word. But God's songs always seemed to find their way past the hardened veneer of my pseudo-sophistication, straight to the soft, unprotected underbelly of my soul. If God hadn't wrapped his invitation in melody, I might be a philosopher, politician or pipefitter instead of a preacher.

Some nights the song was "Just As I Am, Without One Plea." Other nights, "O Jesus, I have promised to serve thee to the end." But more than once it was that old chestnut of a hymn written by the late dean of the Boston University School of Theology, Earl Marlatt, who wrote: "Are ye able, said the Master, to be crucified with me." And I was one of the "sturdy dreamers" who answered: "To the death we follow thee." I never knew, of course, what any of that might mean ... or where any of that might lead. But I believed myself to be equal to it.

Death for Jesus? Of course! Where? On yonder hill? Sure! Shots ring out. Body slumps. Smoke clears. Children hide in their mother's skirts. Strong men shudder. Widows weep in the afternoon. Years later, there is a small (but tasteful) monument. People stop to see it. Others stop to read it. Some extract cameras from purses, telling their children: "Go stand over there so I can get your picture at the site where Billy Ritter gave his life for Jesus." Except that it never happened that way.

To whatever degree Billy Ritter was crucified for Jesus, it was over issues like the church kitchen ... who could use it ... who couldn't use it ... whose responsibility it was to clean it ... "why can't we ever get anybody to work in it, like some of us did in the old days" (all day, every day, uphill, both ways) ... and why does the youth group leave pizza crusts all over it, every time they use it ("after all, even though it's a kitchen, it's the house of the Lord, for God's sake").

Barbara Brown Taylor used to do what I do for a living. What's more, she did it better than anybody. But she left to do something else last year. I suppose she had her reasons. Perhaps some of them can be discerned from this quote:

I don't want to sound cynical, because (as a member of the clergy) I love what I do. Only it's not what I expected. I thought I would spend hours in a leather chair, reading books, writing sermons, keeping appointments with souls who sought my counsel. I thought I would remember people's birthdays and answer letters on time. I thought I would pray more. Instead, I answer telephone calls, oversee budgets, pay bills, break up fights, cause fights, proofread bulletins, take the church cat to the vet, and make sure everybody has read the sexual misconduct manual so we can continue to qualify for our insurance.

Then she adds: "I also complain, as I am doing right now. Not because the work is long. Not because the work is hard. But because I somehow seduced myself into believing that the work would be holier than it is." But then she confessed to a certain boastfulness in her complaining. She compared herself to the mother who has just spent the entire night walking the floor with a colicky baby and wants you to know how exhausted she is, even though she wouldn't have done otherwise for all the tea in China, and will continue to do it for as many nights as it takes to bring peace to her child's digestive system and sleep to her bloodshot eyes.

To some degree, all of us are in the same boat. You as well as me. We are all trying to translate the love we have for Jesus into the work we do for Jesus, even as we try to translate the "Yes" we have said to Jesus into the church we are keeping for Jesus. Like most marriages, there are days when being a Christian is full of romance. But there are other days when being a Christian requires a little effort. I learned, years ago, that if love was going to be real and count for anything at all, romance with Tina Larson was going to have to be worked out in a marriage. And I also learned that, if faith was going to be real and count for anything at all, romance with Jesus was going to have to be worked out in a church. Concerning marriage, the boozy comic draws laughs when he quips: "Marriage is an institution. But who wants to live in an institution?" Yet each time the laughter subsides, I realize that I do. I have no more interest in being a randomly unattached lover of Jesus than I have in being a randomly unattached lover of women. I want to live in institutions ... like marriage ... like family ... like church.

Sure, it's occasionally messy. Hands-on work is always messy. Years ago, dental schools never put dental students chair-side until their third year of study. The first two years were all theory. Gum disease looks like this. Root canals look like this. Master the principles. Memorize the chemicals. But then they found that, when the third year rolled around (and students actually saw real patients), many of them quit. Why? Because they couldn't stand to put their hands in people's mouths. You can have a vocational love affair with theoretical dentistry, but if you are going to do any good for anybody's teeth, you are going to get eight hours worth of spit on your fingers.

You think that's funny? Some of the best ministerial candidates produced by our seminaries wash out before they celebrate the fifth anniversary of their ordination or complete their second appointment. Why? Because, while they had all the skills in the world for ministry, they never quite managed to develop an affinity for churches ... where, the last time I looked, ninety percent of the ministry is still practiced.

Let me put the question thusly. Can you love and serve Jesus on an ordinary day ... in an ordinary place ... surrounded by a passel of ordinary people?

When we were interviewing Jeremy Africa for a staff position in youth ministry, we included a pair of teens on the interview team. They were there for all of it ... .questions and answers ... debate and decision. And along about 10:00 p.m. (when everyone was becoming weary), Jeremy turned to the teens and asked (point blank): "If I am chosen, what do you hope I will be able to do for you?" To which one of them said: "We have a lot of great kids in our youth group. And we have a lot of great times in our youth group. We find it easy to get `fired up for the Lord' when it's Saturday night of Youth Encounter Weekend ... or Saturday night at one of our retreats. But it's hard to keep that fire going when it's not Saturday night and we're not at one of those places. Can you help us in those in-between times?" And, if I heard him correctly, he said he could.

Earlier, I read to you Mark's account of Jesus' baptism. There stands John the Baptist, submersing sinners. I suppose that Jesus had every right to stay dry that day. I mean, it doesn't seem like there could have been much on his conscience that he needed to get clean. But he got in line with the rest of them ... said: "Me, too" ... before taking his turn under the water. And when he came up, God said; "That's my boy" ... or something to that effect ... followed by: "You please me." That's all. "You please me."

What a send-off into ministry. If anyone should have had a wonderful appointment after that ... a stellar career after that ... a smooth ride to retirement after that ... it should have been Jesus. But that's not what happened. You know what happened after that. Jesus dried himself off and was driven by the Spirit into the wilderness. As concerns that particular wilderness, I have been there. Four times. Dark place. Desolate place. Dangerous place. Hardly fit for beasts or Bedouins. And what did Jesus learn there? He learned that if there were any shortcuts to Christianity ... or any shortcuts to ministry ... they weren't going to be his. No "hocus pocus" that would change stones into scones. No "special protection" that would enable him to impress the daylights out of the boys in his fifth grade Sunday school class by leaping (unhurt) from the top of the steeple to the middle of Maple. And no "keys to the city" ... whether Detroit or D.C. ... so that everybody from Denny to Billy would roll over and play dead when he showed up and said: "Boo."

The baptism of Jesus guaranteed nothing of the sort. But then, neither did ours. I recall hearing of a little three-year-old named Ellen, whose parents wanted her baptized by immersion one Easter Eve ... in a church which didn't do immersions ... wasn't set up to do immersions ... couldn't collect enough water in any one place to do immersions. Their baptismal font looked like a bird bath. Sort of like ours. But the family was insistent, so the minister got creative. He came up with a 36-gallon garbage can, which was then filled with water and decorated with ivy.

It was kind of pretty ... if you didn't look too close. But it didn't fool anyone. And it certainly didn't fool Ellen, who (dutiful daughter that she was) went through with everything, just like they'd rehearsed it. She cooperated right up to the moment when the minister bent down to lift her up. Whereupon she stiffened ... arched her dear, sweet little back ... kicked the garbage can, sending water slopping everywhere ... and cried: "Don't do it! Don't do it!"

Maybe she was wiser than her years. Maybe we all would have screamed the same thing, had we really known what we were getting into. For, as the ancient liturgy proclaims: "To be baptized into Christ is to be baptized into his death."

"And into his Resurrection." Meaning that when we immerge from the river ... or climb out of the can ... there exists a very real possibility that we won't be the same old people anymore, or the same old church anymore. And whether we get a vestment of gold brocade that twinkles like the light of a thousand candles, or are robed in righteousness and fitted with the full weight of God's armor, we can (in that wonderfully archaic phrase): "walk in newness of life." Which is a pretty incredible promise, given what most of our "old lives" look like.

The theme for this year's Youth Encounter Weekend is "More To This Life." And I don't know many people who can't relate to that, given that most of us are looking for more...longing for more ... praying for more ... and turning over every last rock in this venerable old building in hopes of finding more.

Well, let me tell you, you've come to the right place. Not a perfect place. But the right place. I really believe that. Which is why I continue to pour body and soul into it. But I am far from alone. A lot of us do. We give our life, here. We find our life, here. We bear the marks of Christ's death, here. And we bask in the glory of his resurrection, here. All the while, holding nothing back.

The oldest church joke in the world concerns the little boy who, upon inquiring about all of the people named on the plaque in the narthex, was told: "Those are the members of our church who died in the service." To which he is alleged to have said: "Which one? 9:30 or 11:00?"

All things considered ... there are far worse ways to go.

Note: This sermon was preached on Homecoming Sunday, and also marked the final day of Youth Encounter Weekend. Jeremy Africa is a new hire in Youth Ministry. Rod Quainton is a new member of the Pastoral staff, and is a fully-credentialled Episcopal Priest. References by Barbara Brown Taylor can be found in one of her newest books, God In Pain.