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Five weeks
and five thousand miles ago (give or take a few), Kris and
I were in England ... London, England ... closer to the non-descript
east end rather than the fashionably-royal and dazzlingly-alive
west end. We were seated about halfway back on the right hand
side of Wesley's Chapel, waiting for the 11:00 service to
begin. Some have called the Chapel the "Mother Church
of Methodism." Technically speaking, I suppose it is.
But phrasing it that way always raises expectations to a level
that the building is never able to match. Especially in England.
Wesley's Chapel is what it is. But it isn't Westminster Abbey.
It isn't St. Paul's. It isn't St. Martin's in the Field. And
it certainly isn't Canterbury.
John Wesley,
himself, once called it "perfectly neat, but not fine."
Which says it all. Just enough, yet not too much. But it's
ours, in a way that the Abbey will never be ours. Which explains
why Kris and I were there ... in the off-season ... the dead-of-winter
season ... with about 110 others. Some of whom were Africans.
Others, Indians. Wesley's Chapel sits in a multi-ethnic neighborhood
now. Many were very British ... but not stuffily so. The preacher
was away, leaving the pulpit in the hands of a retired bishop
from south India. The organist was ill, leaving the console
to the fingers of a substitute (who, nonetheless, played a
Bach toccata, and played it very well). The choir was seven
(including five women over 65, one boy tenor and one octogenarian
bass). What kind of picture am I trying to paint here? A very
modest picture. On a very gray day. Certainly nothing to knock
your socks off ... or your coat, either (if you were thin-blooded),
given that one way British churches thrift on the budget is
to skimp on the heat.
But suddenly
the prelude was ended, the processional begun, and we stood
on 220 collective feet (110 times two), singing the very familiar
words of Charles Wesley, "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling."
But we were singing them to a less familiar tune ... a Welsh
melody that goes by the name of "Blaenwern."
I have
always loved Wesley's words. And, in spite of the fact that
I don't sing it every day, I found that I fancied the tune.
But for the first verse (and part of the second), I couldn't
sing either words or tune. I was all choked up. And there
were tears streaming down my cheeks. All of which grew out
of an overwhelming sensation ... from my heart to my head
(by way of my vocal cords and tear ducts) ... that I was home.
Which
seems ludicrous in the telling. For I wasn't ... "home,"
that is. It was not my country ... not my people ... not my
building ... not even my tune. There was one other American
in the pews. But I didn't know that till later. Even the regular
preacher and organist (whose names I knew by reputation) hadn't
bothered to show. Yet, in that one moment ... in that one
service ... singing that one hymn ... I knew that everything
about me (from my confirmation to my ordination, and from
seven years of preparation to 35 years of vocation) ... had
led me to feel there was something here to which I belonged,
with the kind of assurance and comfort I can describe with
no other word, save for the word "home."
I doubt
if any of you can understand that. But I felt a need to say
that. And, for the moment, all I want you to do is save that
... in the confidence that I will briefly revisit it, mere
moments before I am done.
To be
totally honest with you, this was not my first worship experience
at Wesley's Chapel. It was my third. Kris and I were delegates
in November of 1978 when, after years of being closed and
subsequently refurbished, the Chapel was reconsecrated on
All Saints Day. Which was wonderful. The church was full.
The dignitaries were out in force. Even the queen made an
appearance. But we were mostly Americans, meaning that the
service had a slightly "imported" feel to it.
Then,
in 1980, Kris and I returned on a Sunday morning ... in the
summer ... with 40 of our friends ... on a tour bus. Which
was equally nice. But which also felt "imported,"
don't you see. And, as the tour leader, I had to worry about
things like bus schedules and head counts, not to mention
when lunch was and where the bathrooms were. Along with communion.
That's right, I had to worry about communion, too. The sacrament
was being served that day ... with wine ... in a common cup
... held by the preacher ... from which everyone was encouraged
to drink ... trusting that the preacher's actions with a white
linen napkin would wipe away all evidences of lipstick, drool
and hoof-in-mouth disease from the cup's surface. Which made
my people nervous. And which my people whisper (among each
other), as the communion usher came closer and closer to the
pews in which we were sitting. It wasn't the wine that bothered
them. It was the lips on the cup that bothered them. Which
is why ten of them didn't go forward. They wanted to. But
they were afraid to.
Here,
we make it easy on you. No lips on the cup. No wine in the
cup. As Methodists, we make the grape juice substitution.
But only in American Methodism. And only by custom, not by
mandate. We could use wine. I have heard people say we should
use wine. But, given our pastoral concern for people who might
find that to be a problem, we don't use wine. Episcopalians
do. So I asked Rod Quainton whether there is an ecclesiastical
source for communion wine, and how the priest knows what to
order. I mean, does the priest call up the people at Christian
Brothers? Rod said that every priest does it differently and
that most priests probably buy the wine at Farmer Jack's ...
purchasing whatever they like. That seems like a lot of leeway.
I see problems in this era of specialization. I see multiple
communion lines. I see a red line on the left and a white
line on the right. I see a sweet line by the baptismal font
and a semi-dry line by the grand piano. I see sherry for those
who come to the Supper early and port for those who come to
the Supper late.
Which
is neither here nor there. Except it allows me to make a somewhat
awkward segue into the subject of vineyards. Which are incredibly
important, biblically. You probably don't know that there
are 191 references in holy scripture to the words "vine"
and "vineyard." Were I to include words like "wine"
and "grape," we'd be well over 1,000.
Even more
than the "fig" and the "olive," the grapevine
is the most characteristic plant of Israel. Genesis 9:20 portrays
Noah as the father of viticulture. The climate, especially
in Galilee, is conducive. The rainfall, sufficient. Numerous
passages (including this morning's selections from Isaiah)
suggest that each vineyard had a stone hedge around it and
a watchtower within it. Vinedressers planted each row eight
feet apart, regularly pruned non-bearing vines, and harvested
the fruit in September. It was deemed permissible to pick
a row once ... but never twice. The second picking (the leftover
picking) was to be left for poor people, widows and orphans.
But, more
important, the vineyard was a symbol, commonly understood
to mean "the people of Israel" in the Old Testament,
and "those who abide in Christ" in the New. When
Isaiah talks about "choice vines," he is talking
about those who obey God's word and do God's will. When he
talks about "wild vines," he is talking about people
who don't. And when the Gospel of John talks about Jesus as
the "true vine," he is suggesting that if we become
separated from the source, we will dry up, sour up and bear
no fruit.
What does
that make us? Branches (as in "I am the vine, you are
the branches"), that's what it makes us. And what does
that make me? A field hand. A branch tender. A planter, pruner,
picker and plucker of grapes. That's what it makes me, I suppose.
Meaning that you are my responsibility in God's great vineyard.
Which would be overwhelming if the vineyard were not sub-dividable.
I mean, you are not the whole vineyard. You are part of the
vineyard. One row in the vineyard. Call yourself row 54 of
the vineyard. Don't ask me why. It just has a nice ring to
it ... "54" does ... growing out of a television
show thirty years ago.
Row 54!
That's you. And you are mine. Every year, the bishop says
to me: "Ritter, go take care of row 54." That's
what the bishop says. So I do. And that's how the bishop will
judge my ministry. The question, "How's Ritter doing
out there in the vineyard?", becomes inseparable from
the question, "How are things going in row 54?"
Ministry is, by its very nature, incredibly local.
But not
everybody in it, likes it. This may surprise you, but I have
colleagues who don't like the row to which they have been
assigned, leading them to cast their eyes on a better row.
I have had one colleague for thirty years who, were you to
ask "What church is he presently serving?", the
answer would always be, "His next one." I suspect
it is that way in business, too. Maybe in teaching. Certainly
in coaching.
But in
the last analysis, all ministry is local ministry. None of
this "loving people in general." That won't cut
it. Ministry is about loving one group of people in particular.
The people of row 54. Wasn't it the late Charlie Brown who
once said: "Of course I love mankind; it's people I can't
stand." But I run into all kinds of people who say: "Of
course I love Jesus; but I don't particularly cotton up to
churches." Except that I have never seen anybody ...
even Jesus ... grow and nurture a single grape. Grapes grow
in bunches ... on vines ... in rows.
Every
row is different. And adaptations have to be made to accommodate
the differences. Paul said: "My ministry takes different
forms in different places. I am one kind of preacher here
... another kind of preacher there. On Monday, Wednesday and
Friday, I dress one way. On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday,
I dress another way. I do this, not to the point of vocational
hypocrisy ... and certainly not to the point where I become
a ministerial chameleon who, shortly after ordination, forgot
what color I really am. Not at all. Instead, I become all
things to all men, that I might (by hook or crook) win some."
Obviously, I've taken a few liberties in my translation. But
I certainly haven't violated the text. And, in commenting
on Paul's incredible statement, one scholar wrote: "The
gospel cannot be preached, except as the missionary take his
(her) place beside those he would win."
Ministry
is incredibly local. Just because you can do it someplace
else does not mean you can do it here. To every clergy person
(or program person) we hire, I take great pains to explain
what it's like to live in Birmingham, work in Birmingham,
serve in Birmingham, get along in Birmingham. Then I say:
"Do you think you can do that?" Because not everybody
can. And not everybody is willing to. But sometimes it feels
like I am talking to the wall. Because nobody even understands
the question until they have lived with it for six months.
Row 54 is unique. There is nothing like it in the vineyard.
But, having
said that, row 54 is not the sum total of the vineyard ...
nor is row 54 alone in the vineyard. And the degree to which
we forget that is the degree to which we lose both flavor
and vision as a church.
Just four
days before we sat in Wesley's Chapel, Kris and I sat in the
office of Josef Cervenak, pastor of our church in the center
of Prague, and general superintendent of all Methodist work
in the Czech and Slovak Republics. With us were two additional
colleagues, including Alena Prochazkova ... first (ever) female
pastor in the Czech Republic ... and the driving force behind
our newest congregation in the Lochotin section of Pilzen
(one and a half hours from Prague).
Together,
we drank coffee ... ate cake ... and conversed in their broken
English and our broken German. Then, after lunch, we spent
the afternoon "touring the work" in the pastor's
15 year old car. It's a good work ... a growing work ... but
an incredibly hard work. We have had a Methodist presence
in the Czech and Slovak Republics since 1919, thanks to a
Czech-speaking Methodist missionary from Texas. Between 1921
and 1927, fifty churches were planted on Czech soil. But then
came Germany under Hitler ... Russia under Stalin ... followed
by a curtain that fell and a wall that rose. Suddenly, keeping
the faith ... not to mention the church ... became a dangerous
and fragile thing. Now it's rebuilding time, albeit in a nation
that my friends Jon and Jan Blythe describe as the most agnostic
in all of Eastern Europe.
So where
do we stand? Less than a dozen parishes, now. Less than 3,000
members, now. Served by pastors who make the equivalent of
$3,500 a year, now. But things are looking up. More than three
quarters of the 3,000 members have come since 1990. And even
the most struggling congregations are not only preaching the
word of the Shepherd, but addressing the needs of the sheep.
This is a pivotal time ... a tide-turning time. At this point
in their history (and ours), we could come to the table as
a significant player in a Methodist reformation. And I intend
to ring the dinner bell.
*
* * * *
Earlier
(in my words about Wesley's Chapel), I told you about the
incredible feeling of being at "home" in a place
I had seldom ever been. What's more, I said you probably wouldn't
understand that. But the author of the Letter to the Hebrews
would understand that. He's the one who refers to us as "strangers
and exiles on the earth ... always looking for a home."
Then he adds the strange notation that, if by "home"
we mean some place we have already been ... some place we
have come from ... it would be a relatively simple matter
to turn around and go back there. But it never works. And
it never will. Because our "true home" is a place
we have not yet been, but that we have been preparing to recognize
all our life long. Meaning that we will know it when we see
it ... know it when we feel it ... and, once in it, will not
feel even the slightest vestige of strangeness (even if the
"tune" be other than the one that we have sung all
our life long).
And, as
concerns the God who will welcome us "home," I don't
have the faintest idea what God will say to you. But I think
I know what God will say to me. After our talk passes quickly
over the health of the vines in row 54, God will lean back
... give me that "big picture" smile ... and say:
"Now Bill ... tell me ... how is it going in my vineyard?"
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