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One of
the problems with being an idealist (both by nature and by
philosophical inclination) is that it leads me to think well
of everybody, making me vulnerable to pretty much anybody.
I keep working at realism. But I don't want to go there completely,
given my perception that people who describe themselves as
realists are often pessimists or cynicists in disguise, just
waiting for the proper moment to step out of the closet and
reveal their true colors. Realists I can handle. But pessimists
depress me. And cynicists flat-out anger me.
The idealist
in me hates locking doors ... car doors ... house doors ...
hotel room doors. Speaking of hotel rooms, have you noticed
how security-focused they are becoming? They have a safe I
can use inside and three different means of locking my door
against intruders from the outside. My biggest fear is not
that someone will pick a lock and steal my wallet while I
am sleeping. My biggest fear is that the paramedics (arriving
in answer to my feeble phone call about chest pains) will
not be able to get through to me when I am dying. Not that
I have felt any chest pains. But I never secure that final
bolt-like mechanism in case I do.
I know
there are some not-so-nice people out there who would rather
steal my stuff than buy their own stuff. A few, because they
are poor. A few more, because they are angry. A whole lot,
because they are lazy ... meaning that thievery seems like
a shortcut to satisfying the cravings (drug-driven or market-driven)
that consume them. I can't imagine taking anything that isn't
mine without first asking and then paying for it. That's me.
Unfortunately, it isn't everybody. So I know that one translation
of the phrase "take care" is "take caution."
I have
had my house burgled ... my office burgled ... and the church
burgled. My wife has had her person burgled by a man who reached
for her wallet with one hand, while brandishing a broken-off
bottle with the other hand. So the two of us are careful to
protect ourselves against outsiders. Even though the things
that disappear from here ... and things do occasionally disappear
from here ... are often traceable to insiders.
Paul,
writing to the church in Thessalonika, is talking about the
reappearance of Jesus. Which Paul expected quickly. Although
he never defined "quickly" precisely. But Paul assumed
he would still be around when the Lord came around. Except
the Lord didn't. So Paul wasn't ... around, I mean. Which
became a problem with the passing of time. And which remains
a problem today.
There
are present-day Christians who figure that the problem of
the Lord's reappearance is with the timetable. So they keep
adjusting it ... advancing it ... recomputing it ... telling
us why all those other people were wrong (in spite of the
fact that "those other people" were so sure) ...
and telling us why they are right (because they have better
reasons for being so sure). We don't see as many timetable-adjusting
Christians this Christmas as we did last Christmas. That's
because the millennium hype has died down. Which comes as
a relief to most of us. But which is a matter of great disappointment
to a few of us.
I have
never been one of those Christians who figure that the problem
of the Lord's return is in our timetable, so much as in our
theology. As concerns the Second Coming, I am not sure it
is going to be once for all (to end all), so much as here
and there ... now and then ... to you and me ... or (as Phillips
Brooks once wrote): "Where meek souls will receive him
still, the dear Christ enters in." Which, if nothing
else, will keep us focused on our lives more than it will
keep us focused on our calculations.
Still,
there is this image in Paul's first Thessalonian letter which
is borrowable, whatever our theology. I am talking about Paul's
"thief in the night" image, which has found its
way into secular literature ever since, from the medieval
period to the present day.
One assumes
that by "thief in the night," Paul is talking about
both the surprising nature of the Lord's coming and the intrusive
nature of the Lord's coming. "Surprising," in the
sense that you never know when. Didn't we just sing: "No
ear may hear his coming ... "? "Intrusive,"
in the sense that you never know from where. The assumption
being that when the Lord returns to your house, it will be
from some place that is other than your house ... entering
(perchance) through the window you forgot to close ... through
the door you forgot to lock ... or through the crack you forgot
to seal.
If the
Lord's return is going to be thief-like in nature, it is not
likely to be "an inside job." The gist of the story
seems to say that the Lord will come to us, from beyond us,
to dwell among us ... meaning that it will be something of
"an outside job."
Outside
intervention is something everybody needs from time to time,
even in the coziest and most compatible circles. Have you
ever noticed that even companies who make it a matter of corporate
policy to promote from within, often reach beyond their ranks
to recruit an outsider? Why? There are several reasons. To
shake things up. To counter cronyism. To guard against insularity.
To introduce new ways of thinking and doing. Perchance, to
steal a corporate secret or two. Didn't John Divine just take
a top job at GM ... having held (until a year ago) virtually
the same top job at Ford? It happens all the time.
As a close
observer of ACC basketball, I have watched (with more than
passing interest) the University of North Carolina's search
for a new basketball coach ... to replace Bill Guthridge ...
who replaced Dean Smith. After claiming that they scoured
the country, they settled on Matt Doherty, telling the world
that "he is one of us" ... an insider ... who knows
what it is like to play in the Deandome ... who knows what
it is like to live in Chapel Hill ... who knows what it is
like to wear one of those putrid-looking pale blue uniforms
... and who knows what it is like to wake up every single
morning of his life hating Duke with a passion. But you know
what? It could just backfire. Because sometimes you can be
so blue that you're too blue. After all, wasn't it the little
boy from outside the palace who was the only one capable of
seeing that the emperor was buck naked?
Here on
our own staff, I have found it absolutely critical to balance
outsiders with insiders. Insiders are important. They love
our church ... our town ... our traditions ... and our inclinations.
But outsiders know that while this land is your land, my land,
our land, and a darned good land, this land is not necessarily
equatable with the Promised Land ... and that there are ways
of looking at things which may be different from our ways,
and even better than our ways. Which is why, comfortable though
it might be, we would never want a completely homegrown staff.
And is it totally by accident that the most memorable senior
minister ever to serve First Church was the fellow who came
from Nashville, via New Jersey?
Truth
sometimes grabs atcha differently when it rides in out of
left field. I am talking about places like Nazareth where,
as everybody knows, nothing good has ever come yet. Or from
places like Bethlehem which (for those who saw it then, and
for those who have seen it since) could just as well be Ecorse
... or Lambertville ("O little town of Lambertville,
how still we see thee lie"). When we're talking "Bethlehem,"
we're not talking center of the world, here ... capitol of
the country, here ... citadel of authority, here ... crossroads
of commerce, here. We're talking the kind of place nobody
comes to (or from), here.
But, once
upon a time (which I don't mean to be as fairy-talish as it
sounds), truth snuck in under cover of darkness there ...
courtesy of two people who didn't really live there ... had
trouble getting there ... and probably couldn't wait to get
out of there, once the pediatrician and the OB-GYN doctor
got their heads together and told Mary it was safe to travel.
But Bethlehem
is where it all took place ... God's great break-in, I mean.
Except we don't call it a "break-in." Instead, we
dress it up in a fifty dollar word that nine out of ten Christians
can't explain and call it "incarnation."
The problem
was ... and is ... that Bethlehem's outsider still feels like
one. Which is understandable, I suppose, given the way most
of us feel about folks we don't know.
I don't
know whether Martin Wolf is even alive anymore. But once upon
a time, he wrote some marvelous adult fables, the most famous
of which was entitled "The Way of the Wolf." But
the one I would slice and serve you now is not about the wolf,
but about the bunny ... Barrington Bunny.
We're
talking about a bunny who is the only one of his kind in the
forest at Christmas ... a Christmas where every species is
gathering with its own kind for a party, dinner, or gift exchange.
And it's not as if the other animals of the forest are being
deliberately rude ... or standoffish ... or anything. It's
just that Barrington (well) doesn't fit.
He calls
to the squirrels who are gathering for what they are choosing
to call "a treetops party." Barrington asks if there
might possibly be room ... and if he might possibly come.
"Are
you a squirrel?" they ask.
"No,
I'm a bunny," Barrington answers.
"A
bunny?"
"Yes!"
"Well,
how can you come to the party if you are a bunny? Bunnies
can't climb trees."
"That's
true," replies Barrington. "But I can hop. And I
am furry and warm."
"We're
sorry," the squirrels answer. "Really, we are. We
don't know anything about `hopping' and `furry.' All we know
is that in order to come to our house, you have to be able
to climb trees."
My friends,
don't let that slide by you. It happens so naturally and so
frequently. Nobody means anything by it. But we put so many
strange entrance requirements around the invitations to our
parties, that even those who would be honored at them, can't
crash them.
But that
didn't stop God. For God came in ... out back ... by night
... quiet and thief-like in his movements (after all, didn't
we just sing "no crying he makes"?) ... and crashes
the party anyway.
Jesus,
the friendly thief in the night.
Jesus,
the forceful thief in the night.
Yes, I
said "forceful." For I would invite you to remember
what it is in the nature of thieves to do. It is in the nature
of thieves to steal stuff. Thieves don't break in, shine their
flashlights, take a long look around, only to say "nice
house" and go home. No way. Thieves have no interest
in leaving empty-handed.
And neither
does Jesus ... aim to leave empty-handed, I mean. He means
to steal. Hearts, being his thing. Love, being his modus operandi.
Persistently so. Even shamelessly and embarrassingly so.
My Wednesday
morning men's group has been reading Mitch Albom's Tuesdays
With Morrie for the last several weeks. And since we go
rather slow, we'll be reading it for the next several weeks.
One reason we are going slower than usual is that my guys
are talking more than usual. In fact, they're becoming downright
loquacious. What's more, some of the talk has gotten rather
personal. My guys have always talked about ideas. But my guys
have not always talked about feelings.
A couple
weeks ago, the conversation drifted toward what fathers do
(or do not) tell their sons ... especially like whether they
love them. Which led one of the fellows to reminisce that
neither his mother nor his father ever said anything about
loving him. But then he remembered that his mother did say
... every time he called home ... "Son, do you need any
money?" Which, after several years, he kinda figured
was maternal code for "Son, I love you."
Which
led another guy to say: "You know, I'd say it to my kids
more often, except that it seems like they don't want to hear
it ... like they pull back from it ... like it embarrasses
`em or something."
To which
a third guy ... heck, he said I could name him ... Roger Wittrup,
said:
I don't
care what my kid feels on that score. Instead, I tell him:
"Eric, I'm your father. You're my kid. And I know you
don't always want to hear it, but sometimes I'm just going
to tell you I love you ... or put my arm around you ...
or maybe even kiss you once in a while. Because I'm not
always going to be here to do it. And you're not always
going to be here to have me do it. And I don't want to live
with the thought that I let all this precious time go by
without doing it. If you don't like it, it's your problem.
So deal with it. Just learn to deal with it.
Seldom,
if ever, was Roger ever more godly. After he finished speaking,
there was an uncommon moment of silence in the group. Even
from its leader. When I finally spoke, it was to say: "That'll
preach." More to the point, it just has.
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