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There
is a story I have come to love, told to me by a man you will
come to love. The man's name is John Claypool (a preacher
out of Mississippi, by way of Kentucky). John will spend a
weekend with us next March, at which time he will probably
not repeat this narrative.
It concerns
a Mexican bank robber, Jorge Rodriguez, who operated along
the Texas border around the turn of the century. He was so
successful in his thievery that the Texas Rangers deployed
a whole extra posse along the Rio Grande to try and stop him.
Sure enough, late one afternoon, one of the special Rangers
saw Jorge slipping quietly across the river into Mexico. So
he trailed him at a discreet distance until the bandito returned
to his home village. He watched as Jorge mingled with the
people around the town well and then went into his favorite
cantina to relax.
The Ranger
slipped in and managed to get the drop on Jorge. Pointing
a pistol to his head, he said: "I know who you are, Jorge
Rodriguez, and I have come to get back the money you have
stolen from the banks in Texas. Unless you give it to me,
it is my intention to blow your brains out."
There
was, however, one flaw with the marvelously conceived and
(to this point) exceedingly well-executed plan. Jorge Rodriguez
spoke no English and the Texas Ranger spoke no Spanish. They
were two adults at a verbal impasse.
About
that time, an enterprising little Mexican approached the Texas
Ranger and said: "I am bilingual. Would you like me to
translate for you?" The Ranger nodded, whereupon the
bilingual Mexican told Jorge Rodriguez who the Ranger was
and why he was pointing a gun at Jorge's head. Nervously,
Jorge answered back: "Tell the big Texas Ranger that
I have not spent a cent of the money. Then tell him to go
to the town well ... face north ... count down five stones
... find the loose stone ... pull it out ... reach behind
... where he will discover the money. Please tell him quickly."
Nervously,
the Ranger inquired: "What did he say? What did he say?"
Leading the bilingual Mexican to respond in perfect English:
"Jorge Rodriguez is a very brave man. He says he is ready
to die."
*
* * * *
Make no
mistake about it. In a picture-driven culture, words are still
important. And attention will be paid to anyone who can speak
them clearly and in ways that lead to connections. We are
hurt by what we can't say ... and by what we don't hear. Ask
the bandito in the cantina or the Ranger who chased him there.
As a preacher, I have learned that I can open wounds with
words and I can close wounds with words. In my professional
life ... and in my personal life ... words have gotten me
into trouble and words have gotten me out of trouble.
But why
should I be any different from other people ... like you ...
or you ... or even Jesus? Who, more than once, got into trouble
by what he said. In our little text of the morning, Jesus
finds himself very much in trouble because of what he said.
Not that I read enough of the text so that you can see all
the trouble. To do that, I would have had to take you all
the way back to the beginning of chapter six and read 60 verses
more than I did. Suffice it to say that the unifying theme
of John's sixth chapter is bread ... and the degree to which
Jesus gives it (as in "here, take and eat") measured
against the degree to which Jesus is it (as in "here,
feed on me").
Trust
me when I say there is plenty in chapter six to offend. The
offense begins when Jesus says that he is God's own bread
... come down from heaven ... and that whoever eats of it
will live forever. Which pretty much equates him with God.
And which pretty much elevates him over us. Which does not
strike our ears harshly. We're used to hearing this by now.
But picture yourself hearing it for the first time. Picture
yourself hearing it from another human being who looks and
sounds like you ("I am God's own bread, come down from
heaven; whoever eats of me will live forever"). It would
probably make you scratch your head ... at the very least.
But Jesus
notches things to a higher level by choosing some rather gory
words to describe what he means. In the earlier gospels, Jesus
calls this bread "his body." In John's gospel, however,
he calls it "his flesh." In the earlier gospels,
he calls upon it to "be eaten." In John's gospel,
however, he uses the words for "chomp" or "gnaw."
So a more literal translation might go like this: "Those
who chomp my flesh and guzzle my blood have eternal life ...
for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink."
This is
language more appropriate to butcher shops than churches.
And when you add the fact that Hebrew law clearly forbids
the drinking of blood, you can understand why Jesus' followers
began pulling away from him. Twice, in the text, we are told
that they began to "murmur among themselves." I
love that phrase, given that I have known what it is like
when people in the congregation begin to "murmur among
themselves." Finally, John tells us that many who were
disciples (suggesting that, at this point, there were far
more than 12) said: "This is a hard saying. Who can listen
to it?"
But rather
than making it easier for them, Jesus makes it harder. "Does
this offend you?" he asks. "Well, if it offends
you, what would you say if you were to see the Son of Man
ascending to where he was before he came?" Meaning: "What
if I were to take off right now (like an over-filled helium
balloon), leaving you with nothing to show for this little
encounter but stiff necks?"
To which
you can almost hear them say collectively: "We don't
get it. We don't get any of it. We don't get the living bread
bit. We don't get the gnaw-my-flesh bit. We don't get the
guzzle-my-blood bit. And we especially don't get the up-up-and-away
bit." To which Jesus says: "No, and you probably
won't, unless it be granted you by the Father." Meaning
that your lack of comprehension probably means you haven't
been chosen ... and that you don't belong here.
Picture
yourself in class ... a very high-powered class ... in a very
high-powered school ... listening to a very high-powered lecture
... .delivered by a very high-powered professor ... .whose
words are floating in a very high-powered way ... right over
your very low-powered head. In short, you're not getting it.
Which frightens you, until you look around and realize that
nobody else seems to be getting it, either. So you suddenly
get very brave. And you raise your hand very high. But, when
called upon, all of the courage leaks out of your voice as
you hear yourself mumble: "Could you please back up and
go over that again? Some of us are not getting it." Only
to hear (in response): "Then I guess you don't belong
here." That could take the wind out of your sails or
the starch out of your socks. And it might even make you fold
your tent and depart.
Which
several did. Depart, I mean. People do, you know. At all kinds
of times. And for all kinds of reasons. What's more, it's
hard not to take it personally when they go, even if they
say things like "Nothing against you, preacher"
or "Ritter, this really isn't about you."
But allow
me to let you in on a little secret. You can't do this work
without getting your ego caught up in it. A lot of people
say you're not supposed to. But they're stupid when they say
that. Simply stupid. No one of us will ever become a sufficiently
pure messenger of God, so that all you see is God and nothing
that you see is me. There's always ego there. In greater or
lesser amounts, to be sure. But I would advise you to never
trust a preacher who says there isn't. Instead, trust the
preacher who is honest enough to name it, because it is only
the preacher who names it who has half a chance to tame it.
People
leave. All the time. Which hurts. And irritates. Probably
both. This is true, even for Jesus. I can't speak for you,
but I can hear it in his voice. We are now at the end of chapter
six. Most of the room has bailed. And to the few who remain
... to the dozen who remain ... he says: "Do you also
wish to go away?" And for all Jesus knows, maybe they
do. I'm not sure he's sure about any of them ... about any
of us ... or about me, for that matter. Oh, I'll stick it
out. In part, because I've already stuck it out. But there
were times ... not that I want to talk about them. But there
were times. Everybody has times when they could just as easily
go with the flow, when the flow is going for the door.
Maybe
what Jesus said was: "I suppose you guys want to go with
those other guys" ... .all the while hoping they don't
(or won't). Which is how it turns out, of course. They don't.
But not because they haven't considered it. Peter speaks for
them. And what Peter says is: "Lord, to whom can we go?
You have the words of eternal life." Meaning: "We
don't fully get it either. But we sense we can hear something
here that we can't hear any place else, from anybody else.
Which is why we haven't left. And don't plan to."
The phone
rings late at night in the house where I live. It is you on
the other end of the line, phoning from the house where you
live. You have just hung up that very same phone, following
a call from the hospital where your loved one lives. "You'd
better come," the voice from the hospital says. "He
has taken a turn for the worse." Which often means that
your loved one has died. But since the caller does not possess
hospital authority to tell you that ... or because the hospital
does not want to be responsible for your driving if you know
that ... the caller does not say that your loved one has died.
So you
go. And I go. To see the one who is already gone. Upon arriving
at the hospital, everyone is ushered into a designated meeting
place they call the "family room" (which is where
families come together before they come apart). And the floor
nurse says: "I'll call the doctor. She'll be here in
just a minute. Meanwhile, can I get anybody any coffee?"
And the doctor comes (before or after the coffee). But the
doctor does not stay long. Her job is done. She did what she
could. For as long as she could. Working as hard as she could.
But it wasn't enough. Which, whether she tells you or not,
makes her uncomfortable.
Strangely
enough, this is often where I (as a pastor) feel most useful.
Not that I have anything in my bag of tricks that the doctor
did not have in hers. Indeed, it is past the time for tricks
(hers, mine or anybody's). Just as it is past the time for
techniques (hers, mine or anybody's). Suddenly I am forced
to go to work, precisely at the point where all the things
that are supposed to work, no longer work. When the machines
no longer work. When the mechanics no longer work. When the
technology and the technicians no longer work. When the wonders
of science and the well-cultivated intuitions of the medical
staff no longer work. When everything and everybody we have
counted on to keep the work working no longer work. And when
we are confronted (in the face of all we do know) by all we
don't know ... and (in the face of all we can do) by all we
can't do ... how ironic it is that I am the only person left
who is still working.
Not that
I was ever taught what to say. Which used to frighten me.
But it frightens me no longer. For I know something that the
doctor didn't know (when she said: "We tried everything
we could, but we lost him"). What I know is that he wasn't
ours to lose. He was God's. Or, more to the point, he is God's.
And God translates the language of victory and loss far differently
than we do.
"Do
you also wish to go away?"
"To
whom would we go, Lord? You alone have the words of eternal
life."
*
* * * *
Two months
ago, a young man died ... suddenly and tragically. His grandmother
called a friend and said: "See if you can reach Dr. Ritter,
he'll know just what to say." Notice that she did not
say: "He'll know just what to do." So her friend
called me. I called the boy's grandmother. And I spoke words
that I didn't really think about beforehand ... nor was I
scripted to say beforehand. Words which changed nothing. But
may have altered something.
Two weeks
ago, after praying with a cancer fighter who is now in her
17th round of a 15 round title fight, she said:
"Those words are beautiful." To which I said: "I
don't have the faintest idea where they came from." To
which she said: "I know where they came from."
But this
is not about me, don't you see. The title of today's sermon
departs from the text. My title is not "To Whom Shall
We Go?" Instead, it is "Where, Then, Shall We Go?"
I am talking "church" now. For this is where we
would come to know the Holy One, whose thoughts are not necessarily
our thoughts and whose ways are not always our ways. This
is where we try to penetrate what the Celts call that "thin
membrane" that separates things temporal from things
eternal. And this is where we come to tell the stories which
take some of us years to "get" ... and then, in
a transforming moment, get us. Life saving stories.
Do you
remember Scheherazade? She was one of the wives of the Emperor
of Persia. And Persia's emperor was a man who was convinced
that all women were unfaithful. So he vowed he would marry
a new wife each day, have his way with her at night, and would
have her executed early the next morning. Which constitutes
a rather large problem. Except that Scheherazade was a very
clever woman, who set out to save all the women of Persia.
So on her wedding night she began to tell the emperor a tale
that so fascinated him, he decided to stay her execution for
an additional night so he could hear the rest of the story.
You know the outcome as well as I do. Scheherazade kept on
talking and so fascinated the emperor that he listened to
her tales for 1001 nights, after which he was sufficiently
convinced of her fidelity that he made her his consort.
Let me
ask you a pair of questions. How do you get from one day to
the next in a world where, sooner or later, everything "dear"
dies? And where do you hear the stories that stay the execution....or
point beyond them?
Friday
morning ... 48 hours ago ... 58 of us are walking through
the sanctuary of Hartford Memorial Baptist Church in Detroit.
What we are not doing is going to the front of Hartford Memorial
Baptist Church in Detroit. That's because there is a casket
at the front of Hartford Memorial ... an open casket ... holding
a 12-year-old girl ... outfitted in her very best and prettiest
come-to-Jesus dress. She is lying there because she was the
little girl who was raped and murdered, just a few days previous,
by an 18-year-old boy whose family is also a part of that
church.
We weren't
there for the service. We were there for a tour. We just happened
upon the casket. As we left, people were gathering. And I
suppose the preacher, Charles Adams (who's as good as any,
and better than most), was sweating over what in the world
he could say. But the truth is, there is nothing "in
the world" to say. He could (and probably should) agree
with everyone in the house that it doesn't get any worse than
this.
But somewhere,
in the midst of the utter hopelessness of it all, he should
hint ... maybe just hint ... that it doesn't get any better
than this, either.
"Will
you also go away?"
"Where
shall we go? You have the words of eternal life."
*
* * * *
Note:
John Claypool's story of Jorge Rodriguez is drawn from his
Beecher Lectures at Yale Divinity School, published under
the title "The Preaching Life." I am also indebted
to the biblical scholarship of Barbara Brown Taylor who cleverly
and carefully unwrapped the "offense" of John's
sixth chapter, leading many of the disciples to "murmur
among themselves" and "go away." Unfortunately,
I was not able to stay and hear Charles Adams' sermon or eulogy
for 12-year-old J'Nai Glasker. But given his homiletical skills,
I have reason to believe it was as helpful as it was excellent.
Additional
Note: In the Detroit Free Press of Thursday, September
14, it was suggested that murder and rape charges against
18-year-old Michael Gayles (accused of the crime that took
the life of J'Nai Glasker) may be dropped because of insufficient
evidence. Michael Gayles' attorney has suggested that his
client's DNA did not match DNA taken from the victim's body,
even though he allegedly confessed to the crime on September
4. I include this information in order to update my closing
story in a timely and responsible fashion.
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