Sermon:
May 6, 2001
All Services

Scripture:
Hebrews 11:8-13
Hebrews 11:32-12:2

Having just returned from the Thomaskirche in Leipzig where Johann Sebastian Bach played the organ and directed the choir for twenty-seven years ... from St. Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh, where I experienced a sung-Communion in the morning and a concert by the Edinburgh Academy at night ... and from an almost-impossible-to-find Benedictine monastery near the North Sea, where I heard Choral Vespers sung in Latin by twenty-five white-robed monks ... I am well prepared to value the beauty of what we have just enjoyed (yet often take for granted) musically.

And having crossed a wee Scottish bridge, separating Edinburgh’s Old Town from Edinburgh’s New Town (with the “Old Town” pre-dating the twelfth century and the “New Town” arriving like an upstart whippersnapper in the fourteenth century), just twenty-four hours after leaving East Berlin (which, in its new dress, was almost unrecognizable from the East Berlin I had seen just thirty-four months previous), I am equally well prepared to appreciate the value of what we enjoy historically.

And having traced the footsteps of the Protestant Reformers we number among our “glorious cloud of witnesses” ... having stood in the square where Jan Hus is depicted burning at the stake ... having stood at the church door where Martin Luther said “enough” to the idea that the road from Purgatory to the Pearly Gates was a toll road (with access granted only to those with rich relatives and priestly connections) ... having stood in church pulpits where John Knox preached a succession of “fiery sermons” following which riots always seemed to break out ... having stood in the tiny bedroom where John Wesley allegedly breathed his last (but not before uttering: “The best of all is God is with us”) ... I am especially well-prepared to appreciate the value of what we enjoy heroically.

I am not a history buff. Given a free afternoon and a shelf full of books, I neither read it nor love it. But, for the last several days, I have immersed myself in it. And benefited from it. If I didn’t know it before, I know it now. The “cloud of witnesses” is alive. I can see them ... hear them ... draw strength from them ... even as I prize the possibility of being numbered among them. You have heard people talk about the “weight of history.” Well, it’s more bedrock than burden ... meaning you can stand upon it, long before you are asked to carry it.

Dr. Sol Tax taught anthropology at the University of Chicago. One day he was carrying his little granddaughter on his shoulders. We’ve all done that ... carried a child on our shoulders, I mean. Well, it seems that they happened upon a friend who had seen the child only a few minutes earlier (when she was walking beside her grandfather, much closer to the ground.) Now, looking at her perched high above her grandpa’s head, the friend said: “My, oh my how you’ve grown.” To which the little girl responded: “Not really, don’t you see. Not all of this is me.”

Far too many preachers are, by quirk of personality, lone rangers. Meaning they believe that all of it is them. If the church grows, it’s them. If the church falls, it’s them. If the church succeeds or fails, it’s them. Which is a terrible way to live, really. It drives a lot of good people out of the ministry. I mean, when you get it in your head that you are shooting the only silver bullets in town, yet you’re not hitting many bullseyes, it can put a lot of pressure on you. For which the only salvation is a touch of humility. It’s not all you, don’t you see. Not when it goes good. Not when it goes bad. It’s a shared thing.

To be sure, you are the leader. Which means you are going to get a disproportionate share of the glory one day, and the crap the next. But ministry is more than a one-man (or woman) cavalry. And among the regiments not to be discounted are the regiments that have already gone over the hill. I am talking about the regiments that the world calls “dead,” but the Bible calls “the cloud of witnesses” ... the “communion of the saints” ... and I call “the balcony people.”

I have confessed to you on previous occasions that I hear voices. Not to the degree you need to worry about me (or call somebody to look after me.) I don’t necessarily hear them audibly (unless it’s very late at night ... very dark in the halls ... and I am  walking around the building without turning the lights on.) But the voices speak to me. They speak out of the past. They speak off of the walls. Mostly, they’re cheering me on. That’s what the cloud of witnesses does, don’t you know. Because (says the author of the Letter to the Hebrews) no matter how good it is for them wherever they are now ... and no matter how good it is for them, doing whatever they’re doing now ... there is a certain lack of perfection in their situation that only you and I can fill. Which we do by carrying on their work and by living out their faith. Don’t ask me why that is. There just seems to be a connection between their fulfillment and our achievement.

I keep listening for Arnold Runkel these days. He’s the only one of my modern-era predecessors I never knew ... never met ... never heard. I could have. But I never did. It didn’t work out, don’t you see. I was never where he was. He was never where I was.

But Arnold is the one who brought us here. From down the street, don’t you know. From downtown Birmingham, don’t you know. One day, Arnold peered from behind his pulpit in a church that his people knew and loved. I mean, they’d  baptized their babies there ... said “yes” to their lovers there ... cried real tears when they buried grandpa there. They had cooked in the kitchen, sung in the choir and rocked little kids in the crib room there. They could even walk to church there. They didn’t need to start the car ... drive the car ... or even park the car there.

Then one day Arnold said: “I can see them coming.”

“See who coming?” they said.

“People who aren’t here yet,” Arnold answered. “People who are going to build way out west of Southfield ... nice houses ... new houses ... huge houses. Those people are going to need a church. And this one, much as we love it, isn’t going to cut it.”

To which some said: “Arnold, we’ve got enough people already. There’s over 700 of us here. We’ve no need to move west.” But Arnold persevered with some wonderful lay support. And darned if he didn’t get us to start raising money a half dozen years before we knew what we were going to do or where we were going to go (to meet the needs of people we hadn’t met and didn’t know if we’d  like,  once we did.)

And although Arnold hasn’t told me yet, I am sure there were a few people who said to him: “Dr. Runkel, we’re on a roll now. But what’s going to happen when you retire? (which Arnold never really did) or when you have a stroke” (which he very truly did). And I don’t know if Arnold knew how to answer that question. Unless, of course, it was to quote that darling little girl perched on the shoulders of her grandfather, the one who said: “But  don’t you see, not all of this is me.” And about then, down in Nashville, Tennessee, the Spirit of God began (ever so subtly) to tickle the bottoms of Ernie Thomas’s feet and vibrate the strings of Ernie Thomas’s heart.

My job is much easier than Arnold’s. I don’t have to move you anywhere. I just have to move you. I don’t have to build a sanctuary. I just have to build a Christian Life Center. I don’t have to tell you about people you haven’t met and can’t see. I just have to get you to look at the people who are already here in plain sight. I don’t have to puff you up, beat you up or stand you up. All I have to do is point out the shoulders on which you are already sitting, and then quietly remind you that the time may be coming for  you  to do some of the carrying. We can’t ride free forever, can we?

My friends, I won’t be around forever. But you won’t be around forever either. Neither will Sue, Rod, Lisa, Carl, Chris or Doris be around forever. Even Matt, who hasn’t voted as many times as the rest of us (or shaved as often as some of us) won’t be around forever. But, in Arnold Runkel’s day, who’d have thought that we’d amount to a hill of soggy beans. Like I said, we all could use a touch of humility.

In 1928 Louis Armstrong was at the height of his creativity and popularity. He was walking down a street on the south side of Chicago with a friend. They came to an intersection. Across the street was a band of young musicians playing the “West End Blues.” Louis called across to them: “You’re playing too slow.” One of the musicians called back: “How would you know that, Pops?” To which came the answer: “Because I’m Louis Armstrong and that’s my song.” Those young musicians were instantly in awe of him. So Louis went across the street and helped them “get it right.”

The next day he and his friend took a similar walk. They went down the same street ... got to the same corner ... only to see the same musicians playing the same song. But this time they were playing it right. Whereupon Louis noticed something else. They now had a sign in front of them. It read: “Students of Louis Armstrong.”

My friends, in the great big band of our Lord, Jesus Christ, we are all musical apprentices. But hey, this is our corner. This is our hour. And I’ve gotta believe we can make it swing.