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As
personal experiences go, this one didn’t happen to somebody
else….it happened to me. And as remembered history goes,
this didn’t happen months or years ago….it happened in the
last couple of weeks. I had attended a meeting with a cluster
of clergy….some wearing our uniforms, others dressed in
uniforms of the opposition. But this didn’t happen during
the meeting. This happened after the meeting. In fact, it
happened on the way to the parking lot. Why is it, I wonder,
that there is more honesty in parking lots than in churches,
or even confessionals? Could it be that there is a freedom out
there that does not exist in here? I mean, in a parking lot,
you’ve all but left. You are half gone. With one turn of the
key (which is already in your hand), you could be all gone.
People will say anything when they know they can leave
anytime.
All
I did was ask a respected colleague how things were going. Key
in hand, he confided that things weren’t going as well as
he’d hoped. “How so?” I asked, knowing that just over a
year ago he’d brought great gifts to a great church amidst
great excitement. “Well,” he said, “things look pretty
good on paper. Money’s a problem. But where isn’t money a
problem? The bigger issue is that people don’t seem to be
buying in.”
He
went on to explain that when the ministerial change occurred,
all the ministers changed…. meaning three ministers changed.
Old trio out. New trio in. Which, some would argue, is a good
way to do it. Clean sweep. Whole new team. Less chance for
funny politics….people lining up old staff versus new
staff….choosing sides….gathering allies….training
armies. If and when they do a sweep-out up the street, they
are going to have to buy an extra-wide broom.
And
that’s what occurred in this fellow’s shop. Clean sweep.
No politics. Good people out. Good people in. But when the old
team went, a ton of history went with them. Not about
policies. Not about practices. Not even about programs. But
about people. Personal history, don’t you see. Said my
friend in the parking lot: “I’ve never seen so many church
people walking around saying, ‘Nobody knows my story.’”
Interesting,
isn’t it, that we can communicate with incredible speed in
unprecedented ways, but the only way our stories are
revealed-to and shared-with each other is over time. This is
because story-sharing presumes (even requires) trust….and
like Rome, trust isn’t built in a day. My colleague is a
good preacher….good teacher….good leader….good
administrator. His people see that in him. But they have not
opened themselves to him. Or to his newly-assembled team.
Hence, their lament: “Nobody knows our story.”
Will
that lament diminish with time? Maybe. But maybe not. A lot
will depend on the quantity and quality of his pastoral
encounters. Some of his people will get married. Others will
get buried. Some will become dis-eased….giving them reasons
to weep. Others will become eased….giving them reasons to
rejoice. There will be suffering. There will be partying. And
the questions are: “Will his ministry place him at their
doors then? And will they let him in then?”
Not
everybody who comes to church wants to know and be known. Some
want to hide and be hid. Especially in larger churches.
Anonymity is an option that large churches offer. And
anonymity is something all of us seek some of the time, and
some of us seek all of the time. So if you have come here to
lay low, be my guest.
But
I think it safe to say that most people, either secretly or
openly, hope that somebody in this counter-cultural community
we Christians call “church” will welcome them, accept
them, and perchance (over time) even love them in ways that
will incarnate and radiate the love of Christ. The very same
people who (with abundant breath) say, “Pastor, tell me the
stories of Jesus,” also say (under their breath): “But
pastor, listen to mine.”
Which
is a legitimate expectation, given that ours is a relationship
theology. The distant God does not remain so, but comes to us
where we are….lives among us as we are….starts from the
premise of who we are….before calling us beyond what we are.
When
I organize the gospels thematically, it seems to me that there
are stories about Jesus, teachings of Jesus and encounters
with Jesus. In terms of stories about Jesus, there are
relatively few….most of them centered upon the night he
entered the world or the afternoon he left it. As concerns the
teachings of Jesus, one finds the extended Torah commentary
which Matthew calls the Sermon on the Mount and Luke calls the
Sermon on the Plain. But most of the other teachings grow out
of encounters Jesus has with people, encounters where Jesus
takes them seriously….their question seriously….their
needs seriously….their doubts seriously…..and their faith
seriously (especially when he can see more faith in them than
they can see in themselves).
Textually,
I took us back this morning to the story of Philip and
Nathanael. I read it to you on Palm Sunday (but only as my
auxiliary text). You remember how it goes. Philip meets Jesus.
Philip buys into Jesus. Philip tries to tell Nathanael about
Jesus. Nathanael discounts Philip’s testimony, given that
Jesus comes from Nowheresville (“Can any good thing come out
of Nowheresville, i.e. Nazareth?”).
And
everybody who teaches this story stops there, because the
put-down of Nazareth is so preachable. There are a million
ways to sermonize the “small-town boy makes good” theme.
I’ve done it. Others have done it. Peter Mitchell, President
of Albion College, did it from this very pulpit on the Monday
evening of Holy Week. In fact, Peter said that this little
story was one of his two favorite Bible passages. Peter
didn’t exactly say why. But I think I know why. You see,
Peter comes from Ishpeming (which is every bit as close to
Nowheresville as Nazareth is close to Nowheresville).
That’ll
preach. As will Philip’s line to Nathanael: “Come and see
for yourself.” That’ll preach, too. What has never
preached is the truncated conversation between Nathanael and
the man from Nowheresville. Jesus sees him coming and says:
“Look, a genuine Israelite in whom there is no guile.”
Leading
Nathanael to ask: “How did you know me?” Occasioning
Jesus’ answer: “Before Philip called you, I saw you under
a fig tree.”
Which
impresses the daylights out of Nathanael….that Jesus looked
so deeply….discerned it so quickly….and said so, so
openly. I mean, think of the last time that somebody you
didn’t know, knew you….as in “really” knew you. And
you wondered how.
Now,
it’s possible Jesus was spiritually clairvoyant. That’s
one extreme. And it’s possible that somebody tipped Jesus
off (“See that guy over there? That’s Nathanael. He’s
good people. If he comes around, say something nice about
him.”). That’s the other extreme. And it’s also possible
that the fig tree is the clue. Some scholars say that a Jew
sitting under a fig tree is a person of peace. Others say that
a Jew sitting under a fig tree is a person of prayer. Both
agree that it may be Nathanael’s location that creates his
reputation.
But
whatever the case, Nathanael signs up….on the spot….not
because Jesus had great eyesight (“I can see all the way to
the fig tree”), but because Jesus had great insight (“When
I saw you, Nathanael, I knew you were the real thing.”).
Jesus
knew his parishioners’ story. And I have discovered that
people who work for Jesus had better mirror the same trait.
One
of the things I do pretty well is preach funerals and memorial
services. That’s because I tell people’s
stories…..either because I remember well or because I listen
good. I don’t do whitewash jobs. The dead don’t need my
preaching to clean them up. God’s grace takes care of that.
But I try really hard to capture (in words) not only the facts
of someone’s life, but the depths of someone’s life. And
I’ve been successful, to the degree that I’ve actually had
people say: “I can’t wait to die to hear what you’re
going to say about me.”
Now,
I have colleagues who think that’s wrong. Who never do it.
Who never get personal. Who believe it’s idolatry. Who think
that if funerals ought to glorify anybody, they ought to
glorify God. And so their funeral sermons are generic….one
size fits all….insert name here….and if you don’t know
you are in the right room because you recognize your relatives
sitting beside you, nothing the preacher says is likely to
clue you.
Wherever
clergy gather, the debate rages between the “glorify God”
group and the “remember Harry” group. But it’s not
either/or. It’s both/and. The book on Harry is closed.
Chapter finished. But the Author of Life does not necessarily
drop the pen when the blood clot drops Harry. Which means that
the Big Book on Harry is far from closed. For who can say what
yet resides in the Author’s imagination?
At
funerals, I have never failed to preach the greatness of God.
Nor have I ever failed to offer the promises of God. But
neither have I failed to milk the most that I could….and the
best that I could….from Harry’s chapter (as he lived it,
before death closed it). Because believing, as I do, that
Harry matters to God, I am more than willing….and at least
moderately able….to detail the ways in which Harry mattered
to us.
What
occasionally surprises me, however, is the number of people
(some of them Harry’s dearest relatives and closest church
friends) who tell me that there were things in my
remembrance….in my eulogy, if you will….that they never
knew and wish they had. As to whose fault that was, darned if
I know. The issue is neither guilt nor blame, the issue is
sadness. I find it sad that people can share the same table
(year after year), or sit in the same pew (year after year),
and know so little about each other. Why should I be left to
tell you at death, things that you could have learned about
each other in life?
While
you’re pondering that, kindly permit me to close with a
remembrance of a seminary professor I once knew.
A
few years ago in a church in Oklahoma where I was worshiping
with my family, I had an afternoon engagement and had to leave
quickly. I said goodbye to them after the benediction. In
order to get to the parking lot quickly, I cut through the
back, through the choir room. I said to one of the women in
the choir as she was putting away her robe, “I appreciated
very much the anthem this morning.”
She
said, “I hope so, because that’s it.”
I
said, “What do you mean?”
She
said, “That’s it. I’m hanging it up.” She was putting
away her robe.
I
said, “Are you retiring?” She’d been in the choir 103 or
104 years; I thought she was retiring.
She
said, “No, I’m quitting.”
I
said, “You’re quitting?”
She
said, “I’m quitting.”
“Oh,
you’re not quitting.”
“I’m
quitting.”
“Well,
why are you quitting?”
She
said, "I sat up there in the choir loft this morning and
looked around at the other choir members. I looked at the
minister and looked at the worship leader. I looked at the
ushers and then looked out over the congregation. Finally, I
said to myself what has haunted me for years.”
I
said, “What’s that?”
She
said, “Who cares?”
Well,
I was in a hurry. I had to make a speech, so I said, “Oh,
you’ll be all right.” I went to the parking lot, but all
the way to my engagement and all the way back I thought of
that indictment. I was a member of that church at the time,
and she was indicting me and all the members. In fact, if it
were true, what she had said was, “This is not a church.”
If her opinion after longtime membership was that the sum
gesture of that church was a shrug of the shoulders, then it
was not a church.
When
I got home that afternoon, I called that lady. I said, “I
want to talk to you.”
She
said, “If you want to.”
I
said, “I want to.” I went over there; we talked, and we
disagreed. I finally asked her, “Well, what would we have to
do to show that we cared?”
And
this was her definition. She said, “Take me seriously.”
Which was a strange way to put it, especially for her. She was
a kind of comic, a sort of stick of peppermint; she was always
playing practical jokes. She would pin the tails of choir
robes together. She would go early and put some big cartoon on
the pulpit so that when the minister came out in all his
sobriety, he’d look down and be blown out of the water. She
was that kind of person, so I said, “You can’t be serious!
Take you seriously? What are you talking about? You’re
always joking, laughing.”
And
she said, “You bought all that? I thought it was rather
transparent, myself. I like to be taken seriously.”
When
I left that lady’s house, I said to her, “You’re wrong,
you know.”
She
said, “I’m not.”
I
said, “I get to travel to churches all over the country, and
everywhere I go there are people who care for each other. They
take care of each other.”
She
said, “Where?”
I
said, “Everywhere I go, there are people who care.”
She
said, “Really?”
“Yes.”
She
said, “Name some.”
She
wants names. May I use your name? May I give her your name?
Note:
The closing story comes from the collected stories of Fred
Craddock, recently published by a pair of his colleagues. For
more detailed discussion of “fig trees” and people who sit
under them, see any reputable biblical commentary (the best
being the Anchor Bible Volume on God).
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