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Introductory
Note:
The title
of this morning's sermon is tied to a phrase employed by Frederick
Buechner in talking about the promise of eternal life, which
I quoted in my Easter letter to the congregation of First
Church. For readers not familiar with First Church or its
publications, let me share the contents of that letter.
It has
long interested me to note what people say to buttress their
believability when challenged by skeptics. I once had a
friend who would get red it the face, pound his fist on
the table and shout: "It's true ... I swear it on a
stack of Bibles." Which made for good theater. But
nobody ever produced the Bibles so I never got to see him
do it. I always wondered why "a stack of Bibles"
was better than one Bible. There is certainly strength in
numbers. But what about truth?
I have
never "sworn on a stack of Bibles." Not because
I have never been challenged. But because Jesus told me
not to. Look it up in the Sermon on the Mount. But there
have been times when I have wanted to add some extra "punch"
to a questionable argument. Which has led me to exclaim:
"I will bet my bottom dollar." Not that I know
what it means ... or have ever done so. I am not a betting
man. Putting a couple of dollars on a couple of squares
at a Super Bowl party is as risky as I get. And none of
those dollars was my bottom one.
Imagine
my surprise when a reference to betting one's "bottom
dollar" appeared in the newest book by a favorite author.
I am talking about The Eyes of the Heart, recently
released by Frederick Buechner. It contains the author's
thoughts about dying, even as he anticipates a few fertile
springs. In response to a conversation with his mother ...
on a day on which they were talking about nothing in particular
... she suddenly turned to him and said: "Do you really
believe anything happens when you die?" What follows
is his answer:
Later,
when I got home, I tried to answer the question in a letter.
I believe that what happens when you die is that, in ways
I knew no more about than she did, you are given back
your life again, and I said there were three reasons I
believed it. First, I believed it because, if I were God
and loved the people I created and wanted them to become
at last the best they had it in them to be, I couldn't
imagine consigning them to oblivion when their time came,
with the job, under the best of circumstances, only a
fraction done.
Second,
I believed it, apart from any religious considerations,
because I had a hunch it was true. I intuited it. I said
that if the victims and the victimizers, the wise and
the foolish, the good-hearted and the heartless all end
up alike in the grave and that is the end of it, then
life would be a black comedy, and to me, even at its worst,
life doesn't feel life a black comedy. It feels
like a mystery. It feels as though, at the heart of it,
there is Holiness, and that we experience the horrors
that go on both around us and within us as horrors
rather than as just the way the cookie crumbles because,
in our own innermost hearts, we belong to Holiness, which
they are a tragic departure from. And lastly, I believe
that what happens to us after we die is that we aren't
dead forever because Jesus said so.
Jesus
was another of the dead people I knew my mother wouldn't
want to talk about, and I had no idea how she would react
to my invoking his authority. I said that because, in
one way, Jesus was a human being like he rest of us. I
imagined he could be wrong about lots of things like the
rest of us too and probably believed the world was flat
just the way everybody else did in his day. But when he
said to the Good Thief on the cross next to his, "Today
shalt thou be with me in Paradise," I would bet my
bottom dollar that he of all people knew what he was talking
about, because if in one way he was a human being, in
another way he was immeasurably more.
Were
my mother to ask a similar question, my words might be different
... but no better. And I would gladly back them with my
dollars (even my "bottom" one). Indeed, I already
have. And it is out of that conviction I will preach on
what I anticipate to be a glorious Easter morning.
Sermon:
"Everybody
wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die." Or so
they say. However, as is the case with a lot of things, I
don't know who "they" are. But they probably have
it right. Most people (when they think about it ... which
isn't often) do want to go to heaven. And most people don't
want to die. Although some do. It's a natural thing. Death,
I mean. Curious, too. Frightening, sometimes.
In my
business, it goes on all around me. Even in my yard. At 7:15
last Monday night ... with 25 people coming to my house at
7:30 ... Kris says: "There's a dead squirrel out where
the street and the driveway meet. You'd better get rid of
him, lest somebody park on him ... or step on him." So
with trusty shovel in hand, I scooped him up (not knowing
whether he was really a "he," or whether he could
have been a "she" ... observing, only, that he or
she was fat. But, then, all of the squirrels in my yard are
fat. Which says something about the mildness of winter in
Michigan, or the sweetness of life in Birmingham.) Not knowing
what to do with him ... and thinking that I ought to bury
him (had I the time, which I didn't) ... I trashed him. Literally.
Once again making my driveway safe and clean for visitors.
The next
day ... the very next day ... Kris said: "Come here.
Look at what's happening beneath our kitchen window."
And you can look for yourself, should you be so inclined.
For it's still going on (and will be, I suspect) for several
days. A mother duck is sitting on her eggs. We saw her a few
days previous, when she and her husband (a gay blade if ever
there was one ... with brilliant slashes of color on his back,
including some of the greenest hues you ever saw) scouted
out the little four-foot pond I placed in the patio several
years ago, and decided that this was as good a place as any
to contemplate maternity. Which will make us surrogate parents
to anywhere between three and fifteen ducklings. And which
makes my yard into the mirror image of my church, don't you
see ... given that, in my yard, I've got them "going"
in the front and "coming" in the back.
Ten days
ago, one of my better friends in all the world called and
said: "Mom's dying in Dayton and she's having some problems
with that. Given how far back she goes with you, I think it
would mean the world to her if she could see and talk with
you." So between 12:00 and 12:00 (a week ago Thursday),
my friend and I went to Dayton and back, helping his mom get
comfortable with the idea of dying. She was more honest and
searching than most. She had departure questions ... as in
"how do people go." And she had destination questions
... as in "where do people go." It was a wonderful
visit, conversationally launched and prayerfully concluded.
And, as of last night, she is still very much among the living.
Although, as our beloved custodian, Joe Simpson, used to say
to me (when Joe's cancer began crawling from one body part
to another): "Bill, I no longer buy green bananas."
And neither should she.
Would
that we could slip away knowingly and beautifully ... having
done it all ... seen it all ... healed it all ... blessed
it all. And, once in a while, that's pretty much the way it
works. Fred Buechner, in his beautiful little book The
Eyes of the Heart, writes his beloved grandmother back
into his life and library for one more visit ... on one more
night. Her name (at least the name he had for her) was "Naya."
And probably still is Naya (although who is to say whether
our old names follow us to new places). Listen:
Naya
is knitting a sock and has her knitting face on, her eyebrows
slightly raised, her lips pressed tight.
"You've
already set sail," I say. "What can you tell
me about it?"
She
glances at me over the top of her spectacles and lets
her needles come to rest. "My poor, ignorant boy,"
she says. "Don't you know better than to ask a question
like that when I'm turning a heel?"
The
ball of wool falls off her lap and rolls toward me across
the green carpet. I pick it up and put it on her lap again.
She
says: "When somebody once asked your Uncle Jim if
some friend or another had passed away, he answered (in
his inimitable fashion): `Passed away? Good God, he's
dead.' And I knew just how he felt. I always thought `passed
away' was a silly way of putting it ... like calling a
water closet a powder room ... or calling it a water closet
for that matter. It's all so very misleading."
Then
she says: "It is the world that passes away. When
I used to lie there in that shadowy little room Mrs. Royal
gave me in her establishment that looked out onto the
garden ... with your blessed mother dropping by every
day or so to keep me abreast of the local gossip at Missildine's
(where everybody used to congregate for a Coke after picking
up the mail and Miss Capps would read everybody's picture
postcards over their shoulders), I could feel the whole
world generally slowing down, more and more. Until one
night, after that charming nurse (whose name I regret
to say I've forgotten) turned out the light and was ready
to go home. I realized it was finally going slow enough
... the world, I mean ... for me to get off. And that
is just what I proceeded to do. It was rather like getting
off a streetcar before it had quite come to a stop. There
was a little jolt when my foot first struck the pavement.
And then the world clanged its bell and went rattling
off without me."
There's
a certain loveliness in that, isn't there? I love the idea
of the world slowing down so that I might step off gently
at the end of my ride. But sometimes the world speeds up,
throwing us off rudely in the middle of the ride. And sometimes
the world is so cruel ... so quickly ... that we never even
get to sit down and enjoy any of the ride.
Yesterday
we bade farewell to Clarice Percox, who got to ride till she
was 93. She died on Tuesday, with Carl Price in her room,
having come to deliver a lily. Actually, as she breathed her
last (and gave the appearance that she would breathe no more),
her pacemaker clicked in and jump-started her back to life.
When I shared that story with my Wednesday Morning Men's Group,
somebody said: "Oh, that's terrible news." To which
Paul Metzler said: "No, that's wonderful news."
That's because Paul has a pacemaker, don't you see.
Clarice
is the wonderful lady who gave us the elevator, you will recall.
Meaning that one can only pray that God has raised the one
who raised us. Which, I believe, is a fait accompli. The problem
being, how can I get you to believe it?
Which
is not easy if your heart (and head) be not inclined in the
direction of belief. God's job (the "raising" part)
is easier than my job (the "convincing" part). Sometimes,
I wish God and I could switch jobs. Not because I necessarily
want to do the raising, but because there are times when I
wish I could get out the way and let God do the convincing.
Like Friday,
for example. It is late on a rainy afternoon, and I am delivering
potted plants to some very dear people on the southern side
of town. My final visit is with a man I have known for 20
years. Now, in a state of severe depression and physical decline,
an aide is feeding him dinner (one forkful at a time). This
evening's fare is macaroni and cheese ... because it's easy
going in ... and it's easy going down.
Given
the length of time I have known him ... and the depth of the
valleys I have walked with him ... I know that his primary
burden is not physical, but spiritual. Midway through the
conversation, he thanks me for coming, telling me in words
so soft and stretched out that I can barely hear or connect
them, what my friendship means to him. I tell him how good
he is looking. One of us is lying.
Then I
remind him of what week it is (Holy Week) ... what day it
is (Good Friday) ... and what day it will soon be (Easter
Sunday). When, through a half-chewed mouthful of macaroni
and cheese, I hear him say: "No hope." And I know
what he means, given that I know all the pieces of his story.
When he says "no hope," he is not talking about
his future in this life. He is talking about his future in
the next life.
But he
and I have had this conversation before and have yet to resolve
it successfully. I have tried telling him that he is good.
I have tried telling him that God is good. And while he may
believe the latter, I cannot convince him of the former. Meaning
that what he believes about God's goodness does not outweigh
what he believes about his own goodness ... or lack thereof.
Which is why he responds to my words about Easter by saying:
"No hope."
Which
might be echoed, this Easter day, by the young mother I have
visited in prison over the course of the last year. She is
33 years old. And, just a few days ago, she got herself sentenced
to 40 years. Which she probably deserved (on the scales of
human justice). But which does leave one gasping for breath,
where hope is concerned.
*
* * * *
On Friday,
Jesus died. He didn't "slip away." He didn't "kick
the bucket." And he didn't "pass on." He died.
The world double clutched, shoved its pedal to the metal and
threw him off ... prematurely and violently. And then on Saturday,
everything went to hell. Or, more to the point, he who was
everything (I mean, what else does the term "all in all"
mean, if not "everything") went to hell. "Hell"
being whatever you need it to be in order to describe the
antithesis of heaven. Call it death. Call it prison. Call
it Hades. Call it Sheol. Call it outer darkness ... inner
darkness ... total darkness. Call it "the place where
light is not, and hope goes to die," or "the place
where God is not, and futures go to die." Except that
God went (in Christ) to the place where God is not. And all
hell broke loose, don't you see.
I mean,
isn't that what I Peter said (in the text I just read). And
isn't that what you and I sang (in the hymn we just belted):
Meaning
that neither death nor hell can hold either one of us ...
once I say "come in," and he says "come on."
Do I believe it? You bet your bottom dollar I believe it.
But we will have to use your dollar. I've long since bet mine.
Which wasn't a hard wager to make, as the noted French philosopher
Blaise Pascal once said ... since you're gonna be a winner
either way. If you bet everything and it turns out that there's
nothing, you've had a lot of good years (riding the coattails
of faith in Jesus). But if you bet everything and it turns
out that there's something, then (as the other hymn says),
not even the sky's the limit.
Why am
I willing to make that bet? Because every single thing in
his life points to it. Every single yearning in my life points
to it. Every single experience in the early Christian community
points to it. Every single affirmation of the New Testament
points to it. And virtually every single pastoral experience
(in my 35 years of watching people die) points to it, too.
Do I understand
it? No, I don't understand it. But I am not wired to understand
it. As Paul says, my eyes haven't seen ... my ears haven't
heard ... my mind can't begin to wrap logic or imagination
around "the things that God is preparing" for me.
I know
how Kris and I prepare for you. We cook. We clean. We rake.
We bake. We paper and paint. We trim and we mow. We sweep
and we vacuum. We weed and we hoe. And, Paul says, none of
that can hold a candle to the preparation God is making so
that we will not feel unwelcome or unexpected.
But, in
that same Corinthian passage, there are hints of another preparation
going on. I am talking about the preparing that God's Holy
Spirit is doing in us. Which makes sense, doesn't it. Why
would God contain himself with preparing a place, when God
could also prepare a people to inhabit a place? Although "preparing
a people" is harder. Much, much harder.
Eighteen
months ago, I wrote to you in Steeple Notes of one
of my heroes, Leslie Weatherhead.
Leslie
Weatherhead was pastor of City Temple, London from 1936
to 1960. Early in World War II, his church was destroyed
by German air raids and the congregation worshiped in seven
different buildings. His personal ministry during those
difficult days was acclaimed as nothing less than heroic.
Eventually, income gained from writing and speaking, coupled
with the generosity of American Christians (including the
Rockefellers), enabled the Temple to be rebuilt.
In an
out-of-print volume recently found, Weatherhead offers a
fascinating perspective on the life hereafter. Let me slice
and serve a small portion.
My
own opinion is that everybody survives death, but Christianity
offers something more than mere survival. It offers something
worthy of the name "life." Imagine that two
men go to a classical concert. The first ... we'll call
him Murray ... is a musician to the fingertips: trained
in music, able to play brilliantly, capable of entering
fully into every part of the concert. The second ... we'll
call him Smith ... is Murray's friend and goes to the
concert only to please his buddy. Although he likes a
melody that swings, he is bored with most music and a
high-brow concert leaves him cold.
At
the concert, Murray really lives. He is in a world of
wonder and delight, "thrilled to bits," as we
say. Smith is, musically speaking, just alive. They sit
side by side, but between them is a great gulf. Murray's
long training, hours of study and laborious practice have
enabled him to revel fully in this musical treat. Poor
Smith is feeling horribly out of it.
I
wonder if dying is rather like that concert. We pass to
a spiritual world where the primary enjoyment is spiritual.
We all survive, I think. But whether we fully revel in
the afterlife will depend on the extent to which ... on
this side of the grave ... we have allowed the Holy Spirit
to help us train our spiritual faculties. I never think
of heaven and hell as two places. Instead, I think it
must be hell to be in heaven and not be able to enter
fully into its delights ... like being at an endless concert
and being tone-deaf, or like being at a great banquet
and having no appetite.
But some
of us have appetites. Boy, do we have appetites. Henry Hitt
Crane was, in our town, every bit as famous as Leslie Weatherhead
was in his. Preaching through the forties and the fifties
from the pulpit of Central Church, Detroit (which now stands
in the shadow of Comerica Park), his brilliant mind, sparkling
wit and ethical sensitivity earned him the title "The
Conscience of the City." Years later, dying in a farmhouse
in rural Pennsylvania, his eyes lit up as he turned to his
caretaker and said: "In a mere matter of minutes, I'm
gonna know. I'm finally gonna know." But it was toward
that discovery that Henry had been pointing all his life.
Some day
... from the outer edge of life's ultimate balcony ... one
of God's bigger-voiced angels (maybe you, or even you) is
going to shout: "Red Rover, Red Rover, let Billy cross
over." And having, up until that minute, held onto the
life I love with a white knuckle grip, I shall let go ...
running like heaven, toward heaven ... trusting that (upon
reaching it) I will be utterly amazed. But not necessarily
surprised.
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