 Dr. William A. Ritter Senior Minister |
Fear
Not
Sermon: Scripture: |
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So I told big bully Billy Brisbois that I was not afraid of him, when he cornered me on the playground of Noble School. But I was. Afraid of him, that is. But either I hid it well, or he had bigger fish to fry that day ... meaning that I escaped a beating by my bluffing (something that has served me well on any number of occasions, since). "Don't let them see or smell your fear," they told me ... with reference to both animals and enemies. So I didn't. Still don't. But I have them. Fears, that is. As do you. They may change with the years. Even lessen with the years. But none of us lives fear-free. Monsters under the bed become monsters in the bed ... whether it be the marital bed, the hospital bed, the death bed, or the bed your mother told you about when she said: "You made it; you go lie in it." Fears of falling metastasize, over time, into fears of failing. And for every grizzled veteran who is afraid to leave the world, there are two rookie lovers who are afraid to bring a child into it. At a social hour following last Wednesday's Trustee meeting, several of us were talking about fears over Margaret Valade's gloriously gooey peach and blueberry concoction. Eleanor Chambliss recalled being on the track ... at Daytona ... watching the speedometer climb to unheard of levels. While John Stevens recalled being with a hiking team ... on a mountain ... with increasingly treacherous levels of footing. Eleanor's concern was speed. John's was height. One or the other of which causes butterflies to fly in most every stomach here. That, or snakes. Last May, while tracking the Wesleys in Savannah, several of us stopped to play golf. At the fourth hole, it was my turn to hit first. Suddenly, a ten-foot snake slithered onto the tee. Doc Patterson (who didn't grow up in the South) grabbed it by the tail, swung it in a mighty arc, and hurled it into the brush. Zeno Windley (who did grow up in the South) looked at Doc, looked at me, and said: "I wouldn't have done that." Three holes later, in another foursome, Gary Valade hit his ball under the tail of an alligator. "Just tap it with your club and it will move," Dave Tenniswood told Gary. Keep in mind that Dave was sitting in a golf cart when he rendered his advice. So Gary tapped it and it moved ... the gator, I mean. Which gave him a chance at par ... and an incredible reputation. Many of you tell me that you are afraid to do what I am doing right now ... speak in public, I mean. For you, the microphone is the wiliest of the serpents the Lord God ever made. You'll do anything for the church, as long as it doesn't involve speaking to the church. Which I can understand, even though I appear to do it well. After 35 years, there is still a tasteable measure of "fear and trembling" each time I occupy this pulpit ... not so much over the awesomeness of where I am standing, as over the awesomeness of what I am doing. Some days I think I ought to enter the pulpit barefoot as a reminder that I am standing on "holy ground." One day, I eavesdropped on a Dale Carnegie course where novice speechmakers were being instructed to lower their fears by picturing the audience with no clothes on. My first Sunday in this pulpit, I tried that. But it didn't work. It created a whole new set of problems. Besides, in the last analysis, the Word of God renders all of us naked. Fear comes naturally to us all. But should it come spiritually to us all? Some would say so. Maybe you would say so. The question arose last September in my Tuesday morning women's study group (an exciting, stimulating, mildly daunting, always charming collection of women, if ever there was one). I posed the question: "To what degree can folk be frightened into faith?" And they were sure it could be so ... for some. And they were equally certain that one of the preacher's jobs might indeed be "Chief Fright Instructor." As in:
Although they quickly concluded that they didn't want me to do that ... and that some of them had, long ago, left churches (and preachers) who were "into that." Moreover, it didn't seem as if any of them had come closer to God, Jesus, church or kingdom as a result of "the fear factor." And there were 50 of them there that day. I mean, if fear could really motivate the faithful, you'd think that one of them would have had heaven slipped into her as a result of having hell scared out of her. Wouldn't you? But none of them admitted that such was the case. Not a single one of them. Making me wonder whether fear works for anybody. Which is what I said to them. But not all of them were ready to concede it. So I thought about it for a week. Until I figured it out. Then I came back to class and explained it. Whereupon they figured it out, too. Either that, or they were bored with it and wanted to move on. The reason, I said, that fear does not enhance spirituality, is that fear (in and of itself) blocks intimacy. If we are afraid of something (or someone), we don't get close to it (or them). Instead, we withdraw. Start simple. Start with stoves. When we are little, we are told to avoid them. Why? Because they're hot, that's why. They could burn us ... blister us ... brown our tender little skin, just like the turkey. Then one day we touch the stove at the wrong time ... in the wrong place (like the burner) ... and we learn that it is so. Leading us to shun stoves ... for safety's sake. But if we dwell in that fear forever, we will never cook. And maybe never eat. We will never learn the art of baking a wonderful loaf or stirring a wonderful sauce. Instead, we will live (eternally) in a land of cold cuts and Hostess Twinkies. Either that, or we will spend a fortune eating out. Obviously, we have to learn that the stove is our friend. And how do we do that? By converting fear to respect, that's how. We take a painful lesson and let it teach us. Don't touch here. Don't touch now. Don't touch without the protection of a potholder. But do touch. Because nobody ever cooked a wonderful meal on the stove by keeping at arm's length from the stove. Fear ... no. Respect ... yes. It's the difference between being a gourmet and a Twinkie junkie. Or consider animals. I am talking household animals here ... dog and cat type animals. When we are little, we are curious about such animals and drawn to them. Whereupon our parents instruct us as to how we should behave around them. Touch them here. Don't touch them there. Don't stick fingers in their eyes or hit their heads with little toy hammers. Scratch them under their chins, but don't yank their tails. Run and play with them, but don't try to saddle and ride them. But in the stupidity of our innocence, we break the rules and suffer the consequences. Kitty scratches. Rover bites. We get hurt ... to the point of tears. And if such wounds be inflicted often enough (and severely enough), fear sets in. And fear forces us away. Away from Kitty. Away from Rover. Away from any four legged hairy thing that looks like Kitty or Rover. What's the antidote? Converting fear to respect. That's the antidote. Learning what we can do ... and what we can't do. So that (in the language of the late Dr. Doolittle) we can become "one with the animals." Which brought us ... on that eye-opening Tuesday morning ... to the subject of fathers. I don't know how we got to talking about fathers. But we did. Which led one of our gals to describe hers as being somewhat frightening. Not because of his physicality, but because of his unpredictability. He drank, don't you see. Not always. But always too much ... whenever. Which meant that, as a child, she never knew how he was gonna be ... what he was gonna do ... what he was gonna say. So she kept her distance from her father. Out of fear, don't you see. To protect herself, don't you see. And then one day he died, before they'd ever had a chance to become very close. Which led one of our other gals to talk about her father. Who was stiff, she said. Stern, she said. Not to be ignored, disobeyed or otherwise-messed-with, she said. But then she added: "Even though we respected him, we were never afraid of him. Because there was never a moment's doubt in our minds that he loved us very much." Notice that the nativity narratives are laced with admonitions that people "not be afraid." In the words of the King James version, every time an angel shows up to tell anybody anything, the first words out the angel's mouth are "fear not." The angel says it to Zechariah (Mary's cousin-in-law). The angel says it to Joseph (Mary's betrothed). The angel says it to the shepherds (Mary's smelly stable mates). And the angel says it to Mary, herself. "Fear not," the angel says. Meaning that if anything is going to happen ... if the story is going to advance ... if God's design is going to unfold ... and if anybody is going to get close to anybody ... fear has to be taken off the front burner and placed on the back burner. Until fear gets moved, Zechariah isn't going to get close to Elizabeth ... Joseph isn't going to get close to Mary ... Mary isn't going to get close to God ... and the shepherds aren't going to get close to Jesus. The whole thing is going to break down. Now, I don't know about angels. But I do know a few things about God. And when God wants to cut through the thickness of my resistance ... the better to get my attention ... it can be an ominous and foreboding thing. God doesn't always whisper. And God's messages aren't always delivered by people who look like Rona Downey. Why wouldn't one be afraid? Consider Joseph. Who would want to be told to stick with his pregnant girlfriend, when he had yet to "know her" in the biblical sense? I mean, Rae Carruth (star wide receiver of the Carolina Panthers) has been charged with murder for "offing" his pregnant girlfriend. Apparently, Rae had three of his friends join him in one car ... drove by her car at a high rate of speed ... whereupon one of the four proceeded to shoot her. Well, by law ... by Jewish law ... by the law of the only Bible in existence in the first century ... one of Joseph's options was to have Mary (and, by implication, Mary's baby) killed. But the messenger said: "Fear not, Joseph, even though I am going to ask you to do something that (by all human standards) will seem utterly ridiculous." In biblical language, the words "fear not" are a standard reassurance whenever deity speaks ... in any form ... to anyone. They constitute what linguists call a "theophanic formula." But that's more than most of you need to know ... and more than I want to take the time to tell you. Respect God ... but don't be afraid. That's what the phrase "the fear of the Lord" really means (when the Bible says that "the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom"). Which is another way of saying that we understand as a result of our willingness to "stand under" ... or we discover truth by subjecting ourselves to the one who is truth. If we take the right stance ... and adopt the right posture ("standing under") ... everything tends to fall into place. Respect God ... because respect will keep you humble. But do not fear God ... because fear will keep you distant. Which leads me a story. A closing story. And a very personal story. It concerns the day I was called to the office of the principal of Mackenzie High School (when I was halfway through the eleventh grade). The principal's name was Joseph Pennock. He was an old man (about 107) ... a tall man (at least 7 feet 4) ... and a solemn and sober man (who only smiled every second year, on a Thursday, in July, when there were no students around to see him). He sent for me, by way of a note channeled through my teacher. Called me right down ... he did. Ushered me right in ... he did. And on the desk ... which separated him from me ... sat a big, open book. It was turned to a page which, even reading upside down, I could see was headed by the name: Ritter, William A. Noting my nervousness, he told me that I had nothing to fear. I hadn't done anything wrong. It was just that I hadn't done much of anything right.
Warming to his task, he continued:
Whereupon he flipped backwards in his book to the record of Ponte, Rita C. Then he said: "Take a look at Miss Ponte's record, Mr. Ritter. Now there's someone I can help." I had to admit that her record was wonderful. And without even knowing Rita Ponte, I hated her ... more than I hated any other girl in the junior class. Following which, he said:
And I never got anything less than an "A" again. I never forgot him. But I never, until now, thanked him. In fear and trembling, I had answered his summons. But I left his office, holding my future in my hands. * * * * * What is Christmas, if not that wonder-filled and totally-awesome moment, when the High and Holy Principal of the universe does the same for us? Not by calling us to his office. But by coming to our homeroom and placing the future in our hands. "Fear not ... little flock ... for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the Kingdom."
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