 Dr. William A. Ritter Senior Minister |
The
All-But-Forgotten Part of the Scout Law
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Okay! Everybody ready! Those of you who know it, say it with me: "A Scout is trustworthy ... loyal ... helpful ... friendly ... courteous ... kind ... obedient ... cheerful ... thrifty ... brave ... clean ... reverent." Like riding a bicycle, once you learn it, you never forget it. Unfortunately, we used to race through it as kids, seeing how fast we could say it. The words all ran together ... barely distinguishable, one from another. We said the Scout Law like the Catholic kids in our neighborhood used to say their "Hail Marys." They figured that if the priest required them to say seven, they wanted to spit them out as quickly as possible. How did I learn that? I learned that from the Burghardt brothers (who were the only Catholic boys in our Methodist troop). They were the ones who taught me about rapid-fire Hail Marys. Which may explain why we countered with rapid-fire recitals of the Scout Law. But no matter how rapidly we said it, we always landed hard on the word "reverent." If we could make it to "reverent," the race was finished. You'd said it. Who cared whether you could explain it? Most of my fellow scouts figured they had pretty much taken care of the "reverent" part by showing up in the sanctuary ... on Scout Sunday ... in full uniform. That doesn't include the Burghardt brothers who were under the impression that they were forbidden by the priest to set foot in a Protestant sanctuary, even though they had special dispensation to show up in our gymnasium for troop meetings on Tuesdays. Which sounds ridiculous. But that's the way it was, once upon a time. Praise God it's not that way anymore. At least I think it's not that way anymore. If memory serves me correctly, we also had outdoor worship on troop camp-outs (although one of the adult leaders always had to drive the Burghardt boys to mass). But we paid our lip service to reverence. And a few of us even put in an extra year's worth of effort which enabled us to receive our God and Country emblem. But you would have guessed that about me, wouldn't you? Because even then, I was thinking about becoming a Reverend. Which is a weird title, don't you know. The word "reverend" is an adjective, not a noun. And it certainly isn't a title. But people think I need a title. They get all hung up over what to call me. I tell them to go with "Bill." But, for a lot of them, that's not holy enough. And "Father" doesn't work, except for Julie. In the South, I'd be "Preacher" (as in "Preacher Bill"). If I were Lutheran, I'd be "Pastor Bill." If I were of Rod's denomination (Episcopalian), I could have my pick of titles. I could be "Curate," "Vicar," "Rector," or even "Coadjutor" or "Suffragan." The word "Doctor" strokes my ego, even though it's mostly honorary. But "Reverend" is where most people settle, so I'll own it ... wear it ... do what I can to live up to it ... even in a world that has trouble explaining it. A Scout is reverent. So what does it mean? I could answer by reading from the manual. Or from the dictionary. Or I could tell you a couple of stories. So, for better or worse, I have chosen to go with the stories. The first of which is generically true ... meaning that it could have happened to any one of you. And maybe it did. You are about 12 or 13 ... old enough to wander without somebody wondering where you have wandered off to. Sometimes you wandered with friends. But sometimes you wandered alone. And once, while wandering alone, you got a little bit off the beaten path. And then you got a whole lot off the beaten path. But you weren't lost ... either because you were too preoccupied to be lost ... too confident in your abilities to be lost ... or because it was too early in the day to be lost. Very few people get lost at 11:00 in the morning. Most people tend to become lost along about suppertime (or when the sun goes down). Which is how it came to pass that you stumbled upon a place you had never been before. Indeed, it seemed as if nobody had ever been there before. It was secluded without being scary ... quiet without being eerie. "Still," was what it was. "Calm," too. "Peaceful" ... definitely peaceful. And maybe even "lovely" ... although never in your life had you ever said the word "lovely" before ... and wouldn't (for the life of you) want anyone to hear you saying it now. And maybe the reason it was so ... whatever it was ... was the view. Maybe you looked out from a clearing ... or over an edge ... and it seemed as if the whole world was opening up to you (and your eyes were the finest pair of camera lenses ever invented). Or maybe you couldn't see anything much at all, given that you were surrounded by trees. Except that here and there, there were cracks in the foliage, so that little slices of sunlight knifed through and made this incredible pattern where they crossed. Then you could sit in the middle of that pattern (literally feeling the sun's warmth on your skin). Or you could sit just off to the side, watching the pattern change (minute by minute) as the sun moved this way or that. Finally, after staying far longer than you intended, you left. But before leaving, you covered every trace of having been there. And on the way home, you took special pains to remember how to get back. And you went back ... a surprising number of times. Not really to do anything there. But because you liked how it felt there. And you liked how you felt there. You always went by yourself. Though every now and again, you had this crazy idea ... it was crazy, wasn't it? ... that you weren't entirely alone there. One day you told your best friend about the place, swearing him to secrecy. But your friend told somebody else and, pretty soon, there were four of your friends demanding that you take them to your special place. And without quite knowing why, you almost led them deliberately astray, pretending that you no longer remembered the way. But you got there. And you got them there. Whereupon, one looked around and said: "So ... ?" And another said: "What's the big deal?" Even as a third said: "You dragged us all the way out here for this?" While the fourth, who said nothing, walked over to the place you usually sat and began relieving himself against a tree. After that, you never went back to that place again. Because it wasn't the same anymore. Which brings me to my second story ... one that is not so much generically true, as personally true. Meaning that it happened to me. A very short time ago, Kris and I went to a wedding. Which is to say we attended a wedding. I did not perform the wedding. Meaning that I did not stand up here looking like me, but sat down there looking like you. Like in a pew. Where I do not hang out very often. Meaning that I do not know what it is like ... out there ... where you are. The wedding was for my friend. It was not for my friend's kid. It was for my friend. Who is my age. Meaning that it was important to me. Because my friend is important to me. Anyway, Kris and I took our place in the pew. Which wasn't in this church. But it was a beautiful church ... with a beautiful organ ... playing beautiful music ... for a crowd of beautiful people ... who were behaving (for the most part) beautifully. Yes, beautifully. Except for the people immediately behind me. They were listening to nothing and talking about everything ... including a lot of talk about hunting. And as the wedding got closer and closer, their talk got louder and louder. Whereupon I leaned over to Kris and whispered (very quietly): "Is it always like this out here?" To which she whispered back (even more quietly): "More than you know." I found myself wanting to turn and glare, ever so briefly, at the people behind me. And up until a few years ago, I would have. Because, until a few years ago, I was in that period of my life when I would occasionally count items in the grocery carts of people in the "express checkout lines" and kindly point out to them that this was a "12 items or less" line and they had 27 items in their cart (33 if you made no allowance for the six pack). But I didn't turn and glare because, now that I am older and wiser, I realize that no one died and appointed me "King of the Universe." So I sat facing forward, grinding my teeth in silence. My friend's children began processing. Whereupon a tear or two began rolling. And the organ began swelling. Which was when it happened. But before I tell you what happened, I need to tell you that this church ... the church in which I was seated ... is dominated (architecturally) by a floor-to-ceiling window of stained glass. I mean the whole front of the church is a window. It's not a window in the wall. The window is the wall. And it's mostly of Jesus (although the disciples are in it, too, along with several other images that are less recognizable, but no less beautiful). So there I was ... forward facing ... tears welling ... family coming ... organ swelling ... when the man behind me talking (subject, hunting) noticed the window for the very first time. I mean, we'd been sitting there 15 minutes. How could he have missed it before this? But, seeing it now, he pointed it out to his significant (female) other. Then, in a stage whisper, he said: "Wow. I wonder what a .357 Magnum would do to that?" To which she said (in no less of a stage whisper): "It would send you straight to hell." Now I know the guy was just being funny. I don't think he was planning on blowing out the window. And I don't think he was planning on blowing away Jesus. I mean, Jesus has been killed before. And I'm not all that certain anybody went "straight to hell" for that, either ... given that it is in God's nature to be far more merciful than I would ever think of being. No, the guy behind me wasn't so much sinful as stupid. Or insensitive. Or inappropriate. He just said the first thing that came into his head. And it's a free country. You can pretty much say anything to anyone, at any time, in any place ... except "fire" in a crowded theater. But I wanted to turn around, shake his lapels, and say to him: "Look, buddy, if this place ... if this window ... if this figure ... if this moment ... if these lovers ... if none of this means anything to you ... can you tell me what, if anything, does?" I mean, at some point in your life, you are going to have an experience for which no other word will suffice except for the word "sacred." And it's going to touch you ... move you ... humble you. Moreover, it's going to shut your ever-moving mouth ... bring a tear to your eye ... form a lump in your throat ... drag a long, slow sigh from your lungs ... and maybe even drop you to your knees. Whereupon you may attempt to explain what has happened with traditional words like "God" or "Jesus" or "church" or "sanctuary." But, more likely, you will not know what words to use (by way of explanation) ... although later you may say with Jacob: "Surely the Lord was in this place and I didn't even know it." What it means to be "reverent" is to look for those moments ... to be open to them when they come ... to give space to others to experience them wherever they find them. And, then, when they happen to you, it is to say: "This is as good as it gets ... as true as it gets ... as close to the heart of things as it gets ... and maybe even as holy as it gets" (even though "holy" is another of those words like "lovely," and this is the first time you ever found yourself daring to speak it with your lips). What I am talking about is not something you can get a merit badge in.
That stuff may be a small part of "reverent," but that's not nearly the whole of it. No, what I am talking about is nothing less than a willingness to look for ... be open to ... and then cherish every experience of God that comes your way. For they will, my friends. They will. * * * * * Friday afternoon I am walking along the gorge through which surges the Upper Potomac, the "falls section" of the river ... first charted in 1707 by Louis Michel, who was my wife's great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather. It is 5:15 p.m ... nearly night ... bone chilling cold ... water, dark and murky, rushing pell-mell against rocks, between rocks, over rocks, with all the anger and violence that a river can muster on a cold winter's day. There's no fence keeping me from the edge. What there is, is a warning sign ... telling me that the undertow created by even shallow water surging over rocks can be vicious, and that (in any given year) an average of seven people die by being careless. The warning (by implication): "Respect the river. It can suck you down." What being "reverent" is all about is having an even greater respect for the things that can lift you up.
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