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He was
young and energetic ... freshly minted ... multi-talented.
There was nothing in the world of computers he didn't know
or couldn't do. Which is why he flew west, a few weeks ago,
to plan his future. And which is why he flew east, a few days
later, to ponder an offer. Except that he never got off the
plane. He got on, to be sure. He just never got off. People
were waiting for his face at the gate. But it never appeared.
Had he missed the flight, they wondered. Airline records said
no. He hadn't missed it. He'd made it. He just hadn't exited
from it. So the cabin attendants went back to check. Which
was when they found him ... dead in the restroom.
No one
knows why. "Respiratory arrest" was the formal explanation.
"Asthma attack" was the best guess.
A few
weeks later, his parents came to see me. Not because they
go here. They don't. Not because they live near. They drove
30 miles. They came because one of you intervened to bring
the three of us together, thinking that as a result of having
been there myself, I might be able to help them now. To be
sure, I was willing. As to whether I was able, you will have
to ask them.
It's been
six years and a month since Bill died. His birthday is next
Sunday. He'd be 33. Can you imagine that? Him being 33? The
problem is, it's getting harder for me to imagine that.
They come
three or four times a year ... different families ... similar
situations. But they come, not just because we've shared something,
but to see if I know something. A reason. An answer. Or a
secret.
As I said,
I don't know if I help. I listen to their story. I tell them
my story. We commiserate (as in the sense of pooling our misery
so that we might momentarily wade through it together). It's
called empathy. And, as I have said before, there is tremendous
ministry in empathy. Because God can be invited into the pool,
too. I can tell them:
God
has felt your pain.
God
has cried your tears.
You
see, God had a son, too.
God
has been where you are now.
That's
some of what they get from me. But that's not all they get
from me. Because, whether they know it or not, they come for
something else. Something more. I think they come for a vision
of a brighter and better day. They come, hoping that someone
will tell them it won't always be this bad and won't always
hurt this much. Which I can tell them, don't you see.
Not that
I always know when to tell them. Timing is everything. If
the first thing out of my mouth is "Oh, you'll be fine,"
it will probably be the worst thing out of my mouth. Because
"fine" is relative ... different for everyone.
So I wait
for "the moment" (which has everything to do with
feeling and nothing to do with training). Then I say something
like this:
Look,
each of us is different. And I can't speak for anyone but
me. But to whatever degree it might help, you are looking
at someone who remembers (with every fiber of my being)
what it is like to sit where you are now. Except that I
am not there now. And the day will come when you will not
be there either.
I know
it is almost impossible for you to believe, but I am here
to tell you that there will come a morning when the birds
will sing again and an evening when the stars will shine
again ... when (as the Bible says) you will eat your bread
in gladness and drink your wine in joy. There will come
a day when you'll pick the petunias and dance the polkas
... plant the gardens and till the harvests ... when you
will not walk out of movies halfway through or turn down
invitations because it takes too much out of you to laugh
and party, even with friends. There will come a day in which
you will care again about who the governor is and whether
the Tigers are winning or losing. And there will come a
season when a whole day will pass ... and then two days
... and you will realize you haven't thought about all you
have lost, or who you have lost.
No one
can tell you when that time will come. And you probably
won't recognize it when it happens. But in looking back
upon it, you will see it for what it was ... and will be
comforted by the knowledge that sometime (when you weren't
even aware of it) you turned a corner.
And if
I can slip that message to them (without forcing it on them),
they will hold onto it, even if they are not entirely sure
they can trust it. For while people need company in the valley,
they also need someone who can point to a life beyond the
valley ... and speak of that life in ways that are believable
and attainable.
The same
need is present in institutions (as well as individuals).
It always hurts me to talk to church members and pastors who
do not like where they are ... cannot see a way out of where
they are ... and are not able to describe what the "promised
land" might look like, were a genie to suddenly emerge
from a bottle and offer to take them there. I actually heard
of a colleague who said, on his first Sunday, to his new people:
"As you probably know, I didn't ask to move ... didn't
want to move ... and tried three times to turn down this move.
But here I am. So I guess we'd better figure out how to make
the best of it." Talk about a church and a pastor sadly
in need of a vision.
One recalls
the late and beloved Elsie Johns. Elsie worked for a small
manufacturing firm in Highland Park, was active in her local
church, and eventually completed all of the studies to prepare
her for lay pastoral leadership of a congregation. Except
nobody offered her a congregation. With great regularity,
she bugged Bishop Marshall Reed to give her a chance. Finally,
he conceded. He told her about a small church on Grand River,
adding that he didn't know much about its present state of
health and couldn't say for sure if there were any leaders
left that might make ministry viable. Entering the building
with a key, she found a note on the dust-covered pulpit. In
essence, it said: "This church has no people and no money."
Thirty-three years later, Elsie retired from that church.
Well, not exactly that church. What she retired from was a
new multi-million dollar building on Middlebelt and more than
a thousand people on the membership roles. Ask the people
of Clarenceville United Methodist Church about Rev. Elsie
Johns and then sit back for an hour's worth of stories. They'll
tell you about valleys ... and visions.
Drop back
with me 25 centuries to Babylon. Which is where the Jews are
... after the Conquest ... after the destruction of the Temple
... after the fall of Jerusalem ... after the forced deportation
("All Jews to the buses") that, from that day forward,
Israel has referred to as "The Exile."
To be
sure, they weren't gassed, gagged, gunned or garroted. They
were alive. But they were far from home ... and even further
from "happy." Religiously speaking, they found themselves
unable to preach, pray, practice or sing. Especially sing.
Read the 137th Psalm:
By the
rivers of Babylon, there we sat down and wept when we remembered
Zion, hanging our lyres in the willows, so that when our
captors said "Sing for your supper," we said "How
shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" Our
stringed instruments are in the trees. Our percussion instruments
are in the pawn shops. And we stuffed socks in our trumpets
three or four days ago. We have no faith. We have no hope.
How do you expect us to have a song? The lip's gone limp.
The heart's gone cold. The well's gone dry. (liberal translation)
So along
comes Ezekiel the prophet. But who needs him? Isn't Ezekiel
the one who said: "If you don't clean up your acts, sure
as shooting God's gonna let your neighbors clean your clocks."
Which their neighbors did ... sure as shooting.
But prophets
... I mean good prophets ... always have two sermons. The
first sermon is about warning.
But the
second sermon ... the one that comes after nobody hears the
first one ... is a sermon about ... Well, you know what it's
about. You heard me read it this morning. Unless you weren't
listening. In which case, I'd invite you to go back and read
it again. It sounds good when spoken aloud. Except maybe Ezekiel
didn't speak it, so much as sing it ... a couple bars here
... a couple bars there ... unaccompanied (what with all the
instruments hanging from the trees).
Dem
bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.
Dem
bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.
Dem
bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.
Now
hear the word of the Lord.
Then,
taking note that the bones were not only dry but disconnected,
I think Ezekiel began to mumble:
And on
he went, passing from the finger to the hand ... from the
wrist to the arm:
The
elbow bone's connected to the shoulder bone.
The
shoulder bone's connected to the neck bone.
The
neck bone's connected to the head bone.
Now
hear the words of the Lord.
Dem
bones, dem bones, gonna walk around.
Dem
bones, dem bones, gonna walk around.
Dem
bones, dem bones, gonna walk around.
Now
hear the word of the Lord.
And they
probably thought Ezekiel was nuts. But the next day, one or
two of them took the socks out of their trumpets, which led
one or two others to lift their lyres down from the willows.
Not because of the prophet. He just preached the sermon ...
or sang the song. Which is not to be sneezed at. Ask any church
where they don't have a preacher who can bring it ... or sing
it.
But "bone
work" is Spirit work. Notice the words in our text ...
words like "breath" ... words like "wind."
Those are "Spirit" words. Ours is not confidence
borne of a spellbinding preacher ... or a sweet-singing prophet.
Ours is confidence borne of the life-giving Spirit of God
... who can meet us in the valley ... feed us in the valley
... and lead us through the valley ... all the while reminding
us that while the valley is full of roads that lead in, there
are an equal or greater number of roads that will lead out.
"Well,"
you say, "that message is fine for some individuals and
will certainly suit a number of churches. But not this church.
This church is not in a valley. This church is on a hill.
This church is on a high. This church is on a roll."
And you would be right. At least, it has seemed so to me ...
especially in the last two or three weeks. But I warn you
that valleys are both deceptively near and seductively attractive.
Which is why, as long as I am among you, I will feel the need
to hold before you what George Bush once called "that
vision thing."
So I am
going to test your eyesight.
- Can
you see us actually reaching ... celebrating ... then surpassing
our membership goal of 3001 by 2001? Two and half years
ago, some called it impossible. Others called it silly.
But this morning's new member class, coupled with next week's
Confirmation class, will take us past 2950.
- Can
you see an ever-increasing dollar amount for ministries
which take place beyond the doors of 1589 West Maple? Last
year's total was $759,000. This year we should surpass $800,000.
- Can
you see as many adults (and hopefully, more) signing up
for the Christian Believer series as are now completing
the Disciple series?
- Can
you see more nights like the Brubeck night (how sweet it
was). We talked about a concert series for nearly seven
years. What a splash we made when we finally jumped in feet
first.
- Can
you see Doris Hall sitting at the console of a new organ,
aided and abetted by an improved acoustical setting for
our worship? Did you realize that some parts of our present
organ are held together by duct tape?
- Can
you see a Family Life Center added to the "footprint"
of our present building? As is the case with the organ,
we don't know the exact parameters of what may be possible.
But we have done the research and are ready to draw some
plans.
- Can
you see a group of seminary students following the staff
around, sticking their inquisitive noses into every aspect
of our ministry? We are meeting this July to propose just
such a training venue for next January.
- Can
you see our fourth service gravitating (in our collective
minds) from experimental to institutional ... from debatable
to comfortable?
- Can
you see a work team in Prague, as well as in Memphis and
Costa Rica?
- Can
you see a $2 million Endowment, a $10,000 Crop Walk, and
a second Habitat house (followed by a third, fourth and
even fifth)?
This is
not the only list. Nor is it the best list. But it is one
list. Something of a starter list. One thing for sure. It
is not a list for the timid or for those who are faint of
heart. Which has never been us. Has it? Has it??
Having
tested your eyesight, let me test your memory. My third Sunday
here, seven years ago (July 18, 1993), I closed my sermon
with one of my all-time favorite stories. A third of you weren't
here then. Another third of you were up north then. And I
am counting on the last third of you to have developed bad
memories since then. It's a Fred Craddock story. Fred teaches
preachers down Georgia way.
Not
long ago (says Fred), my wife was away. I figured I'd have
one of my big meals while she was gone. So I stopped by
the Winn-Dixie supermarket to get me a jar of peanut butter.
But I didn't know where they kept the peanut butter. They
have so much stuff in the supermarkets these days, and they
change things around all the time so that you can never
find anything. I tried reading the generic signs that hang
from the ceilings midway down each aisle. But I have yet
to find one of those signs that says "Peanut Butter."
Besides, it was about 5:30 in the afternoon when I got to
the store, meaning that the place was filled with people.
I happened
upon a woman pushing a cart. She looked like she might be
at home there. So I said to her: "Pardon me, ma'am.
Could you tell me where the peanut butter is?"
She
looked around at me and snapped: "Are you trying to
hit on me?"
So I
said: "Lady, I'm just looking for the peanut butter."
Along
about that time, a stock boy happened by. He must have overheard
the conversation, because he mumbled in passing: "Peanut
butter ... Aisle 5 ... halfway down on the left." So
I went to Aisle 5 and looked halfway down on the left. And
there it was. Right where he said. So I got me a big jar
of peanut butter. When along came the woman with the shopping
cart. She looked at me. She looked at my basket. Then she
looked at me again and said: "You really were looking
for the peanut butter."
I said:
"I told you I was looking for the peanut butter."
To which
she said: "Well, nowadays you can't be too careful."
To which
I said: "Yes you can, lady. Yes you can."
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