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Even though
it has been 35 years since I was a contestant on a televised
game show, I still remember the "rush" that came
as the result of sitting before the cameras, trying to answer
questions for money. The game was Password. The host
was Bill Cullen. Playing partners were Kitty Carlisle (with
whom I won) and James Mason (with whom I didn't). Unfortunately,
the prize money was miniscule ... $300 plus a set of World
Book Encyclopedias. Today, I can't account for any of the
dollars. But I still have all of the encyclopedias. Along
with the memories.
Which
have been rekindled by the amazing success of a ABC's boffo
game show, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Not that
I watch it much. But, given the way it has blanketed prime
time, who can avoid it? Just yesterday, I read that it will
air four times weekly, come fall. Already, it has run away
with the ratings ... averaged 24 million viewers a night ...
saved a struggling network ... made a star out of an aging
talk show host ... forced every male in America to consider
dressing monochromatically ... and injected into everyday
speech the phrase: "Is this your final answer?"
Concerning
the show, there's a lot to like. The host is good. The set
is good. The music is good. The money is good. And the premise
is good. Most of us wouldn't mind being millionaires. But
we'd rather not have our desire labeled "greed"
and splashed into the title. I have noticed that almost nobody
wins a million ... not because they are stupid and miss questions,
but because they are smart and settle for lesser jackpots.
Meaning that they quit while they're ahead. Which differentiates
them from gamblers. But that's another sermon.
But the
show's real appeal rests in a pair of other considerations.
First, the questions are relatively easy. Second, the format
is uncommonly interactive.
Concerning
the questions, most of us can answer some of them. And some
of us can answer most of them. They draw heavily upon popular
culture. And they are all multiple choice. The right answer
is staring you in the face. Which means you don't have to
know it, so much as recognize it. What's more, anybody who
has graduated from college in the last quarter century has
taken hundreds of multiple-choice exams, and may have mastered
the art of out-psyching the test's designer.
But it
is the show's interactivity that makes it captivating. Once
you make it to the chair opposite Regis Philbin, there is
no other contestant to compete against. But there are a host
of people (seen and unseen) to collaborate with.
Thirty
years ago, Hal March (remember him?) hosted an equally-popular
show, The $64,000 Question (remember it?). What a big
deal $64,000 was. And what an expert you had to be to win
it. But if you remember that show, focus on the absolute isolation
of the contestant. He or she was sealed (not placed ... sealed)
in a soundproof booth. Meaning that nobody ... offering anything
in the way of help ... could get anywhere near. Much was made
about the absoluteness of the isolation.
On Millionaire,
there is neither booth nor barricade. The contestants are
exposed for all to see. We see them. The audience sees them.
What's more, the audience is allowed to help them. That's
where the "lifelines" come in. To reach a million,
the contestant must correctly answer fifteen questions. But
a lifeline can be used three times in order to soften the
impact of ignorance. Picture a relatively simple question:
Bratwurst,
as an edible delicacy, is most commonly associated with
what country?
And, for
the sake of argument, let's say that you have never seen,
cooked or eaten bratwurst. What lifelines could you employ?
Well, you could ask Regis to remove two wrong answers (presumably
eliminating Italy and New Guinea). Or, you could poll the
members of the audience, who would then punch their individual
opinions into keypads, giving you an instantaneous spreadsheet
of response. Obviously, if 94 percent of the audience settled
in on one answer, you'd be stupid not to go with it. Your
third option would be to phone a friend, who would then have
20 seconds to ponder "bratwurst" or look it up in
a dictionary.
The correct
answer, of course, is "c. Germany" ... which you
should have known linguistically, if not gastronomically.
But if you didn't, help was available ... presuming you were
willing to call upon it, or trust it, once received.
You see
where this is going, don't you? I suppose it is fair to compare
life to a test. Not because God has designed it that way,
but because it gosh-awful-often feels that way. Sometimes
the stakes are minimal. But sometimes, incredibly high. And
some of the most difficult tests center around choices ...
often, multiple choices. Which offer? Which lover? Which road?
Which route on which road? High or low? Easy or hard? Cut
the corner? Play the angle? Today? Tomorrow? Now? Never? It's
not by accident that America's favorite poem begins: "Two
lines diverged in a yellow wood ... " But had Robert
Frost lived longer ... and become a part of the multi-optional
society we have created ... his depiction of "forking
roads" wouldn't have stopped at two.
I am talking
about choices here. All kinds of choices. Moral and immoral.
Legal and illegal. Vocational choices. Relational choices.
You name `em, sooner or later, you'll have to make `em. So
how do you go about it? Well, let's stick with the three lifelines.
They'll preach. After all, they aren't called "lifelines"
for nothing. Use them correctly ... you go on. Fail to use
them ... you go down.
First
lifeline: Simplify life by eliminating those answers that
are obviously wrong. But how might you do that? At the
risk of sounding simplistic, you might become a student of
scripture. But don't misread me here. The Bible is not an
instantaneous answer book. Most people are not going to be
successful if they approach the Bible with a conundrum, open
it at random, and then let their mind devour the first sentence
their finger discovers.
Worse
yet, in addition to there being conundrums the Bible will
not instantaneously enlighten, there will be riddles the Bible
will never completely resolve. That's because the writers
wrestled with the same things we wrestle with. And the Bible
records that wrestling ... which is, in and of itself, helpful.
But that
being said, the Bible is pretty clear that some choices don't
work ... that some roads lead down dead ends ... and that
some options will turn out to be life-destroying (and guilt-producing)
no matter how many people try them, believing themselves to
be the exception. Jesus' word to the multiply-wedded and frequently-bedded
woman of Samaria said (in effect): "Lady, you keep getting
on a train that never takes you anywhere." Later that
evening, talking with the guys at the bar, she was overheard
to say: "How come that guy at the well talked turkey
to me about my destination, while all you guys ever want to
do is ride the train?"
The Bible
isn't going to solve everything. But it is going to take you
through a whole lot of "been there, done that" stories
that didn't get anybody anywhere. I realize there is a human
propensity for learning things the hard way. But if we believe
that "trial and error" is the only way folks ever
learn things, we might as well surrender the notions that
history can be progressive and training can be productive.
If, in a class for would-be chainsaw operators, the instructor
centers in on a particularly dangerous behavior and says,
"Remember, the last 17 guys who tried this now purchase
single cufflinks," I'd probably listen. Well, the Bible
can reward the serious reader similarly, by removing the least
productive answers from the great game board of life. Such
answers are unproductive, not only because God has decreed
them so, but because time has proved them so.
Second
lifeline: Poll the audience (which, in this case, would seem
to suggest "the congregation"). Now don't dismiss
this suggestion by viewing it with a literalness that is ridiculous.
I am not suggesting we replace the sermon-of-the-week with
a dilemma-of-the-week, while encouraging you to record your
responses by punching keypads in your pew racks. Although
there have, undoubtedly, been worse abuses of a Sunday morning.
Instead,
I am suggesting that while a Christian congregation might
not know the answer to everything ... or agree on the answer
to everything ... it comes to the discussion with a leg up
on all lesser constituencies. That's because churches are
filled with people who, when they talk about pursuing the
"good life," are not only talking about the "sweet
life" ... but also the "Godly life" (including,
by inference, the "moral life"). Does this happen
in every church? Sadly, no. And in churches where it happens,
does it involve everybody? Sadly, no.
But I
am here to tell you that clusters within congregations do
provide opportunities for reflection (that are experientially
driven and biblically grounded). It could be a group engaged
in Bible study or book study. It could be a seminar talking
about parenting issues or ethical issues. It could even be
a circle of people sitting in the Thomas Parlor talking about
modern movies and their content. Such groups provide forums
wherein people can sharpen their thinking and refine their
choices.
I have
known a lot of people who have quietly introduced a personal
issue into a group discussion and drawn great benefit from
the conversational "chewing" that took place. Seldom
do such folks say to the group: "I've got this problem
and I would appreciate your counsel." Instead, they pose
it as somebody else's problem ... or a hypothetical problem
... or a problem faced by somebody in the book (the text or
the lesson). Then, when the group bites on it, I can see the
wheels turning in their head. Later, they may say to me (privately):
"I really learned a lot from Dale's comment in this morning's
class" or "I was really surprised with the group's
reaction to Abraham's dilemma ... Mary Magdalene's dilemma
... Kathleen Norris' dilemma." As your pastor, who watches
you closely, you have no idea what you learn from each other.
No idea at all. But such learning is taking place all the
time. Hopefully, on my less ego-driven days, I am smart enough
to get out of the way and let it happen.
Lifeline
three: Phone a friend. That's what they're there for,
don't you know. The other day, it occurred to me (actually,
it occurred to Kris) that while our acquaintances are drawn
from every sphere of life, virtually all of our friends are
people we met in church. This dates back years. Which, in
some minds, is a violation of professional protocol. Clergy
aren't supposed to form close friendships with people they
serve. Too many opportunities for favoritism and jealousy,
they say. Too many problems for successor pastors, they say.
Too many ways to blur the personal and professional, they
say. All of which are warnings well heeded. Such things happen.
But what's the alternative? The alternative is a lot of pastoral
families who are starved for friends. Friends are not only
valuable, but critical. Even for pastors. Especially for pastors.
So why
wouldn't most of mine be church-related? After all, who is
more likely to look at the world with lenses similar to mine,
than you? Who is more likely to affirm values similar to mine,
than you? And who is more likely to follow a Lord similar
to mine, than you? Which means that if I find myself at some
critical juncture of my life (unsure of which way to go),
why wouldn't I turn to a friend who would know "where
I was coming from" ... who would know something of my
story ... who would know something of my history ... and who
would know the impossibility of separating my history from
His story.
Jesus
told a story about a man who knocked on his friend's door
at midnight, saying: "I've just had a hungry houseguest
arrive and I have no food to put before him. If you'd be so
kind, lend me some bratwurst and some buns." To which
the reply came: "It's late. You're late. I'm sleepy.
Kids are sleepy. Whole darn house is sleepy. Don't have bratwurst.
Only have summer sausage. Buns are stale. Refrigerator is
padlocked." Which is to say that most friendships have
limits.
But, says
Jesus, suppose the guy at the door doesn't recognize those
limits? Suppose he keeps knocking ... keeps buzzing ... keeps
leaning on the doorbell ... keeps calling out your name? Sooner
or later, you'll give up, get up and ante up, just so he'll
shut up. Which, several verses later, is followed by the kicker:
"If he'll do that, how much more will your heavenly
Father do for you when you ask ... when you seek ... when
you knock?" We're talking connections here ... friends
on earth and friends above ... friends in low places and high
places.
Everybody
ought to have somebody they can call at midnight ... or when
they run out of bratwurst ... or patience ... or hope. Everybody
ought to have somebody they can call when they've been dumped
and have no honey ... or been dumped and have no money. Everybody
ought to have somebody they can call when they need someone
to come to a police station with a checkbook that is open
immediately, and questions that will wait till morning.
It recently
occurred to me that the highest compliment Jesus paid his
disciples was when he said (John 15:15): "I no longer
call you servants. I used to call you servants. But now I
call you friends ... and no greater love has anyone than this,
that a man lay down his life for his friends." Which
brings to mind that snatch of a musical (which I can sing,
but can't name):
He's
my friend, to the bitter end,
No
matter what the other people say.
He's
my friend, to the bitter end,
Though
the bitter end's not very far away.
Which
it may not be ... far away ... the bitter end, I mean. So
phone a friend.
The friend
that may have the answer.
Or the
friend that may be the answer.
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