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I
suspect enough time has already passed, since the last day of
the school year, for at least one of your children to assault
you with the statement that he or she is bored. Which is
something akin to a warning, which says: “Boredom may be my
condition. But with this announcement, I am making it your
problem. Suggest something to relieve it, or prepare to assume
responsibility for any trouble I may get into as a result of
trying to do something about it myself.”
I
can see why kids might be bored today. I mean, there are no
more alleys behind the houses anymore. So how can they play
Kick the Can or Duck on the Rock? And with the simultaneous
disappearance of wooden steps leading down from the front
door, how can they kill several summer hours throwing a tennis
ball against them, trying for doubles, triples and home runs
on the rebound?
Kids
could certainly go down to Bill Bowman’s porch, play Hearts
till bedtime, drink Bill’s mom’s grape Kool-Aid, try to
stick Bill with the queen of spades, or keep the queen of
spades in a glorious, but all-too-often-futile effort at
“shooting the moon.” Yes, they could certainly do that if
Bill Bowman hadn’t moved to California 40 years ago ... where
he may or may not play Hearts anymore ... “shoot the moon”
anymore ... or drink grape Kool-Aid anymore. But since Bill was
a tax accountant (last I heard), those days on his
porch ... playing Hearts ... “shooting the moon” ...
drinking grape Kool-Aid ... may have been as good as it ever
got. Although I hope not.
All
of us get bored from time to time. No big deal, really. Unless
boredom becomes chronic. And unless the bored one assumes no
responsibility for its alleviation, but figures that somebody
else (God, parent, husband, wife, kid, friend, therapist,
preacher, you name it) ought to fix it. In effect, making his
boredom my problem.
At
its core, boredom is a spiritual problem. To my way of
thinking, it is but one step removed from the ultimate
spiritual problem. I am talking “Original Sin’s first
cousin” here. Meaning that boredom is sinful ... and the
people who suffer from it (chronically or repeatedly) are
sinners. Harsh words, to be sure. But hear me out.
For
years, we have labeled Original Sin as “pride.” Not the
kind of pride that pursues excellence and takes pleasure in
achieving it. Not the kind of pride that sees one’s self as
a person of sacred worth and does nothing to demean it. Not
the kind of pride that carries one’s self with dignity, and
interacts with integrity. No, I am talking about the kind of
pride that moves past chutzpah into hubris ... past hubris into
self-centeredness ... and past self-centeredness into
arrogance. I am talking about the kind of pride that says:
I am the center of all things ... the measure of all
things ... the final judge and jury of all things ... one who
has gone head-to-head with God in an old-fashioned game of
King of the Hill, until God cried “Uncle,” conceded defeat
and slunk home.
That
wonderful, mythic, cosmic, primal story in the
Garden ... featuring trees and temptations, apples and
arrogance ... is much, much more than meets the eye. God says
to Adam: “The whole garden, it’s yours. Every last tree,
yours. Every last apple on every last tree, yours. Save for
one tree. The tree in the center of the garden. Do not touch
the tree in the center ... or eat of its fruit ... lest you
die.”
But,
with lots of help, Adam reaches toward the forbidden tree and
bites the forbidden fruit. Why? Three reasons. The tree looks
good. Its fruit is associated with wisdom. And Adam is told
that whoever eats of it will know everything God
knows ... thereby rendering God superfluous. Original Sin is
not apple thievery in the narrow sense. Nor is it willful
disobedience in the broader sense. Original Sin is prideful
arrogance in the ultimate sense. It is saying: “I will
charge the hill. I will claim the center. I will occupy the
middle. And whatever I think about things ... as to whether
they be good or bad, right or wrong, wise or stupid ... shall
be, if not the last word, the only word that matters.”
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Pride, in the last analysis, is the failure to find
God’s authority binding.
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Boredom, in the last analysis, is the failure to find
God’s creation interesting.
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Pride says to God: “You can’t make me.”
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Boredom says to God: “You don’t amuse me.”
Well,
you could say: “What do you expect from little minds?” But
over the years I have noticed that boredom does not diminish
as intellect rises. Rather, some of the brightest people I
know suffer from it most. The venerable preacher in the book
of Ecclesiastes being one. “Remember your creator in the
days of your youth,” he says, “when life is still
interesting.” For soon it will be less so (he says) ... same
old, same old (he says) ... full of disappointment and defeat
(he says) ... hardly worth the effort it takes to live it (he
says) ... certainly yielding no pleasure (he says). “Remember
your creator in the days of your youth,” thus seems to mean:
“Get this God business settled while life still has a
measure of freshness and vitality to it, because once the good
stuff goes (which it will), finding the God stuff isn’t
going to be easy.” See, I told you that boredom was a
spiritual problem.
So
what to do? Well, I could tell you that creation is not only
good, but very good. That’s in the Bible. I could tell you
that the heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament
showeth forth God’s handiwork. That’s in the Bible. I
could tell you that you are but a smidgen lower than the
angels, and that all things have been placed under your
authority and dominion. That’s in the Bible. I could tell
you that you are both fearfully and wonderfully made (with the
word “fearful” best translated “awesome” ... as in
“awesomely made”). That’s in the Bible. I could remind
you of this wonderful image from the 36th Psalm
about “drinking from the river of God’s delights.” That,
too, is in the Bible. Or I could tell you of the
ophthalmologist who never tires of greeting strangers at
breakfast by asking: “Have you remembered to thank God for
the fluid in your eyeballs this morning?” Which isn’t in
the Bible. But which does reintroduce the amazing relationship
between divine design and human benefit.
In
a hymn that got broomed from the acceptable list, two hymnals
back, I used to sing: “Life is good for God contrives it;
deep on deep its wonder lies.” But we could sing that hymn
until we were (collectively) blue in the face, and it
wouldn’t cut through the malaise that the truly bored
suffer. So, instead, I am going to give you several slices out
of a day ... my day ... Thursday ... which (to your way of
thinking) might be right up there on the list of dullest days
ever recorded. But without further explanation or apology,
here it is (in five easily-digestible pieces).
I
am up north ... Elk Rapids ... alone ... 36 hours (no more, no
less). I am there to read, think, cut grass, clean the ditch,
play with my chain saw, figure out how to finish this sermon,
and remind myself that man does not live by bread alone.
Although
the morning starts with bread (whole wheat toast,
actually) ... two slices ... cut diagonally ... cherry
jelly ... gracing the edge of a Harbor Café plate which also
includes scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns (extra crispy) and
coffee. This is what the Harbor Café calls the “Morning
Special.” This is also what Jan Boyer calls “heart attack
on a plate.” But I often see Jan in there. So what does that
tell you?
I
am alone ... table for one ... town paper to my left ... Detroit
paper to my right ... both eyes on the paper ... both ears on
the conversations. Other people’s conversations. I love to
eavesdrop, don’t you know. Not because I have any ill intent
as to what I might do with whatever I might learn. But because
I love the stories people tell ... in the living ... in the
talking ... and in the banter between neighbor and neighbor,
neighbor and waitress, waitress and cook. Life is too close in
a 30-seat café for people to live it privately. Especially at
breakfast ... where you can get a little weather with your
eggs ... a little gossip with your eggs ... a little local color
with your eggs ... a little humor with your eggs ... and, every
so often, a little heartbreak with your eggs. I never mind
going to the Harbor Café alone, because they give me
unlimited refills on both coffee and community.
On
to the barber shop, where Mike has cut the town’s hair and
minded the town’s business, about as long as anyone can
remember. Mike can talk about virtually anything. But Mike is
really good when it comes to talking about
history ... especially the town’s history. Every town in
every era needs somebody to keep the chronicles (either
scratched on paper or etched in the head). First Chronicles.
Second Chronicles. No matter. It’s not enough that people
live the stories or tell the stories. Somebody’s got to
weave the stories together, don’t you see. It’s called
oral history. Barbers do it best. They also do it cheap.
Eleven bucks for the haircut. Three bucks for the tip. No
charge for another chapter of Third Chronicles.
Late
afternoon now. Weary from playing with my toys (mower,
whacker, chain saw). Smelly, too. The only guy who will take
me that way is my neighbor, Charlie. Charlie cuts my grass
when I’m not there. So, finding myself in need of a break, I
grab a can of Squirt and go sit on Charlie’s deck. Small
talk. Good talk. Harbor talk (who’s selling ... who’s
buying ... water up or down ... that kind of talk). Only this
time, there’s more talk. Charlie’s mother died three weeks
ago ... age 91 ... congestive heart failure ... blessing,
really ... .Alzheimer’s setting in ... didn’t know where she
was, some of the time ... started praying (near the end) in a
language Charlie didn’t even know she knew. Her funeral was
100 miles away. Charlie got in an accident on the way to the
funeral, ending up in the hospital without quite knowing how
he got there. His little dog got loose at the scene of the
accident. Disappeared for three days. Showed up on a
stranger’s porch, leg bone sticking through his skin.
Not
exactly the best week in Charlie’s life. Mother, dead. Car,
wrecked. Dog, found. No pins in Charlie’s leg. Seven pins in
the dog’s leg. I didn’t really know Charlie’s mother.
Barely knew Charlie’s dog. Still, one weeps with those who
weep and rejoices with those who rejoice. It’s what
Christians do, whether the water be up or down.
Six
o’clock now. Cleaned up now. Showered and shaved now. Best
part of the day now. Reading on the deck now. Watching the sun
dance on the water now. And watching the chipmunk now. The
chipmunk ran pell-mell across my deck until he spotted me and
stopped dead in his tracks. Chipmunk ... watching me.
Me ... watching him (or her). With a chipmunk, how does one
tell? There we sit for a full frozen minute ... maybe
more ... each of us staring at the other. He’s probably
wondering why, after months of non-habitation, the deck is
suddenly occupied. But that’s just my speculation. Who knows
what he’s wondering? I certainly don’t.
Does
he know that I am a big-ticket preacher, reading (at that very
moment) high-level theology? Would theology mean anything to
him? Would God mean anything to him? Suddenly it hits me. If
there is a gap between what the chipmunk knows of me ... and
between what I know of God ... which gap is greater? I’m
afraid it may be the latter.
Which
brings me to the carp. They mate in June. In my lagoon, in
June. With great gusto, in my lagoon in June. Oh, but they are
noisy in their love making, carp are. Jump clean out of the
water, carp do. Don’t know if it’s the male or female
doing the jumping. Don’t really care. But they put on quite
a show.
Don’t
really know carp. Don’t much like carp. Don’t know anybody
who does like carp. Never see ‘em on the menu. Don’t know
anybody who catches ‘em, keeps ‘em. The first time I heard
that noise outside my house and somebody told me it was carp
mating, I thought: “Who cares?” (that they mate, I mean).
But they really get into it. They have no concern, whatsoever,
about who might be listening. Which was when a big, ugly,
brown one came clean out of the water, twisted in the air, and
re-entered the water with a mighty “thwack.” And I don’t
know why, but I smiled.
Margaret
Valade said that she used to get easily distracted, driving up
to their place at the Homestead. Not that I could fathom that,
because Margaret is interested in everything. But she’s not
bored on I-75 anymore, she said. Now that she blesses roadkill,
she said. Which gives her lots of opportunity to do her thing,
given that Michigan has lots of roadkill. It makes you wonder
why you can’t buy Roadkill Helper at Quarton Market ... or at
Costco (in 50-pound quantities).
As
roadkill goes, Margaret doesn’t bread it, bake it, braise
it, or bury it. She blesses it. How? By simply saying to every
flattened creature she encounters:
Thank you for whatever you have given to the planet.
Not
that she necessarily knows what the gift was. Just that there
was one. And that somebody ought to be grateful.
But
when you start thinking that way ... about gifts and givers, I
mean ... you never know how far back it will take you. Or how
far up it will take you. Why, when you start thinking that
way, you can stare at chipmunks, eavesdrop on coffee drinkers,
watch carp make love, listen to barbers write chronicles, or
sit on somebody’s deck talking about their mama and their
dog, until a “nothin’ day suddenly seems
worthwhile” ... full of God, you might even say.
How
did the psalmist put it?
How precious is your steadfast love, O God.
You save humans and
animals alike.
All people take
refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the
abundance of your house.
And you give them
drink from the river of your delights.
Which
is better than grape Kool-Aid, I suspect. Though not
infinitely better. Happy summering.
* * * * *
Note:
The idea for this sermon was born in my Tuesday Morning
Women’s Study Group when boredom became the topic of choice
and Margaret Valade first astounded everybody with her tales
about “blessing roadkill.” Which led me to some thoughts,
first penned by Eugene Peterson, on the subject of religious
imagination (shared in an Easter sermon several years
previous).
The
question about the chipmunk’s knowledge of me, in relation
to my knowledge of God, was first raised by the late Dr.
Leslie Weatherhead in his book, The
Christian Agnostic. Only in Weatherhead’s musings on the
subject, the chipmunk was an ant crawling up the pulpit of the
famed City Temple in London.
Let
the record show that before I finished preaching the last of
three services, a box of Roadkill Helper had appeared on my
desk.
Let the
record also show that, as a result of my musings on the mating
of carp, I learned more about this breed of fish than I ever
thought I wanted to know. Ed Chambliss told me that carp is
the basis for gefilte fish which is considered a Jewish
delicacy. Rod Quainton and Bob Arends both referenced the fact
that carp is a holiday delicacy in the Czech Republic,
although Bob thought the Czechs ate it on Christmas Eve while
Rod thought it was served on New Year’s Day. Gary Kulak
informed me that it is the female carp who jumps out of the
water and re-enters with a mighty “thwack,” the better to
dislodge her eggs from her underside, prior to fertilization.
And Martha Ehlers schooled me on the intricate differences
between mating and spawning. Everyone should preach to such an
informed (and interesting) congregation.
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