 Dr. William A. Ritter Senior Minister |
Bigger
Than a Breadbox
Sermon:
Scripture: |
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Recent
letter writers to the New York Times are bemoaning the
loss of the golden age of radio. If that be true, I don’t
have the foggiest notion when that age was, let alone where it
went. But I do remember a day before television when we sat in
the living room and watched radio. If you don’t believe such
a thing is possible, ask somebody who was there. Among
the shows I remember “watching” on the Philco was a game
show entitled Twenty Questions, which featured a panel
whose task it was to guess the name or nature of something by
asking questions, no more than twenty. The only panelist’s
name I recall is that of Lyle VanDeventer. I am certain,
however, that by 12:05 this afternoon, I will have the entire
panel, the emcee and the corporate sponsor, so gifted are you
at coming up with such things. There
are only three “specifics” I remember about the show.
First, the panel was very good. Second, the panelists were
given one clue, namely that whatever was to be guessed could
be classified as being animal, vegetable or mineral. Third,
somewhere in the twenty questions a panelist was bound to ask:
“Is it bigger than a breadbox?” The
very question dates me. It’s been a long time since I’ve
seen a kitchen with a breadbox. In fact, let’s have a show
of hands if you still have a breadbox in your kitchen.
Yesterday afternoon, in an antique shop in Tequesta, Florida,
Kris found an old breadbox and suggested I carry it home as a
prop. The price tag said $28, which wasn’t daunting. But
then I realized I’d have to haul it on the plane. So, thanks
to Duane Young of the 8:15 crowd, I now have this breadbox in
the pulpit as a visual reminder. The
“breadbox question” was the panel’s way of getting at
the issue of size. So much so, that the phrase “bigger than
a breadbox” came to represent something that was rather
large. A “yes” answer to the breadbox question kept the
panel (and the rest of us ) from thinking in terms too small.
But it is time to leave radio trivia behind and confess a
theological bias. I am finding that I am at a stage in my life
where it is becoming increasingly important to view God as
being “bigger than a breadbox.” Or, to put it another way,
I am growing increasingly irritated with movements that strip
God of grandeur and holiness, the better that God might be
perceived in terms more accessible and intimate. We
are witnessing the domestication of God in our time. Which is
not without appeal. For it is nice to have a God who is
comfortably relational. And relationships come easier when the
one being related to is of a similar size. Several years ago, Modern
Screen Magazine ran a series entitled “How the Stars
Found Faith.” It was there that the late Jane
Russell announced: “I love God. And when you get to
know Him as I know Him, you’ll find He’s a living doll.”
Which doesn’t do much for me. But I’m sure it meant
something to Jane. While
the intimacy of Jane’s relationship with the Almighty seems
a bit too intimate and familiar, I vividly recall a hymn of
similar closeness:
My God and I walk through the fields together. Other
verses continue the image:
He tells me of the years that went before me, And
then, jumping from pre-birth to post-death:
This earth will pass, and with it common trifles, As
a boy, I sang that hymn as a solo. It spoke powerfully once.
And there are moments when it speaks powerfully still. I like
the idea that mine is a “companioned journey.” There is
comfort in the notion that God might take my hand in his. But
a “companionable God” does not speak to all of me. For
that God is a bit too small….and a bit too near. In that
sentiment, I may well be alone. But hear me out. When
I used to teach Stephen Ministers how to be Stephen Ministers,
one of my teaching specialties was prayer. It was my task to
teach people how to pray out loud….in the company of others.
Which is hard for the average person to do, given that prayer
is perceived as being both personal and private. But there are
techniques associated with doing it publicly. The first is to
find a comfortable form of prayerful address. How are you
going to address God aloud? What noun are you going to use?
And what adjectives are you going to use to modify the noun?
In those years, I gave Stephen Ministers lists of nouns
and adjectives, encouraging them to circle the ones that felt
most natural. Some circled adjectives like “loving” and
nouns like “Lord.” Others circled adjectives like
“gentle” and nouns like “Friend.” A goodly number,
both male and female, expressed an affinity with the noun
“Father.” As do I. Yet I modify “Father” with
adjectives like “almighty” and “heavenly.” I find
myself less able to pray when the terms of address are too
intimate, or when they suggest that prayer is simply a quiet
little chat with someone as near as my elbow. Meaning that, as
a form of approach, “gentle Friend” doesn’t do it for
me. I
am in good historical company. The Jews of ancient Israel were
terribly concerned lest God became overly familiar. Their
concern permeated their laws. Don’t build statues of God.
Don’t make images of God. Don’t even refer to God by name.
That concern also permeated their stories. Consider Moses. God
met him in a burning bush. But Moses was immediately told to
take off his shoes, lest there be any assumption (on
anybody’s part) that Moses, in full dress, had any right to
be standing there. But
out of that encounter, God forged a relationship with Moses
that was haunting and compelling. There was little doubt in
Moses’ mind that he must do what God asked, which was to
rescue God’s people. God had heard their groanings all the
way from Egypt. Therefore, Moses was being sent to command the
liberating effort, as well as be God’s chief negotiator in
the court of Pharaoh. But in order to answer Pharaoh when the
Egyptian ruler asked, “Says who?” (as surely he would),
Moses said to God: “You had better give me your name.” But
God simply answered: “Just tell them I Am who I Am. Tell
Pharaoh that the great I Am sent you.” All of which was
God’s way of saying: “There is more to me than any name
can encompass.” On
another occasion, when Moses got overly close to God’s
presence, he was told to turn around, face the mountain and
hide himself in the cleft of the rock until God passed by,
given that “no man can see the face of God and live.” Sure,
these stories are ancient. But they aren’t there by
accident. These stories exist because our ancestors in the
faith knew there was a danger in allowing a too-cozy
relationship with deity to develop. For everything we humans
get our hands on, we want to massage, manipulate, manage and
muscle into submission. So why would it be any different if we
humans were to get our hands on God? We have seen the wisdom of such counsel. It explains why we begin worship with expressions of God’s grandeur. Didn’t we open our service this morning by singing:
O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder ….which
was omitted from the text of the hymn, given that the lyricist
decided to substitute the words “how great thou art.” But
you get the idea. There
are, you see, good worshipful reasons for beginning thus. But
I am not content to leave it there. I find myself needing to
sing “How Great Thou Art” for a pair of personal reasons
which, only now, are becoming clear to me. Kindly hear me out. First,
I need to sing of God’s grandeur as a way of clarifying
whether my primary desire is that God serve me or lead me. I
am 61 years old. This makes me at least middle aged. While far
from the scrap heap of once-useful clergy, it has been a long
time since anybody referred to me as “that bright young Turk
of the church.” I have pretty much assessed my strengths,
accommodated my weaknesses, and gotten comfortable with who I
am. While I am sufficiently restless so as to never be
completely settled, I do understand how easy it is for
routines to become ruts, and for ruts to become caskets
(albeit without ends or tops), and how tempting it is to cozy
up to a God who will take care of me, companion me, fulfill
me, forgive me, and allow my needs to set the agenda for our
conversation, the better that I remain comfortable and secure. But
that is not the way I got here. I did not get here simply
because God said “yes” to me, but because I also said
“yes” to God. I did not get here simply by saying “Come
into my life,” but rather “Take my life.” And I did not
get here simply by making God welcome, but by submitting
myself to obedience. For more than 60 years it has most often
been “well with my soul” when I have been stretched in my
skin. Comfortable as my surroundings are (and they are quite
comfortable, thank you), this is still a barren land. And
competent as I appear, I am very much a pilgrim. And so last
Sunday’s hymn remains this Sunday’s prayer: “Guide me, O
thou great Jehovah, pilgrim in this barren land.” A
pair of lay people were talking about their newly-appointed
preacher. Said one: “There is no question he will love us as
we have never been loved.” To which the other responded:
“But when the time comes, will he be able to lead us where
we have never been led?” At this stage of my life, I need
God the Leader every bit as much as I need God the Lover. At
60 years of age, I am reasonably certain that I am loved.
Truth be told, I haven’t spent ten minutes in the last ten
years wondering whether God loved me. What is less certain is
that I know, with clarity, where God would have me go. Second,
I sing a hymn of grandeur because I need to turn large chunks
of my world over to a God I can trust with confidence. At 61
years old, I am at the top of my game. I am healthy. I am
competent. I do not lack for education or experience. I know
how to get people moved. I know how to get things done. I know
how to affect change. But every day I realize that what I
bring to the world’s need….what I bring to the church’s
need…..what I bring to your need….is literally a drop in
the bucket of what is necessary. It is a strange feeling to
have reached a point in my life when both my sense of
confidence and my sense of inadequacy are higher than they
have ever been. In
a great book title, Philip Watson paraphrased Martin Luther by
reminding us to Let Go and Let God. And, on more days
than not, I find myself saying: “What choice is there?”
Still, I need to believe that God is equal to all that I dump
in God’s lap. John
F. Kennedy once said the thing that surprised him the most
about the presidency, once he got there, was how little power
he had to actually do anything. I read Kennedy’s statement
30 years ago. But I am only coming to understand it now. For,
even at the height of my powers, I can’t do much of
anything, either. To be sure, I can choose which side will
receive the weight of my oar. But this boat we call
“history” seems increasingly beyond my capacity to
steer….or beyond anybody else’s capacity, either. Most
days, it seems as if we have settled for steerage by committee
(which may explain why we keep going in circles). So handing
more and more of it over to God seems like the only reasonable
alternative. Woody
Allen once quipped that God wasn’t dead but was merely an
underachiever. Which, to some, was irreverent….to others,
funny. But it’s a fear that many hold. Is God up to the
challenge? Therefore, it is imperative that (in my search for
God) I end up where Job does, face to face with a God who is
bigger than I am….knows more than I know….and whose
immensity and intellect I can somehow trust. In fact, it is
probably more important (at this stage of my life) that I
trust God, than that I love him. A
few years ago, I found myself in the copilot’s seat of a
twin engine prop plane piloted by a man named Ralph. Ralph was
flying six of us from the Livingston County Airport to the St.
Clair Inn for dinner. It was one of those charity auction
deals where Kris and I got to tag along with the winners. And,
for reasons not entirely clear to me, Ralph suggested I sit up
front. Copilot
is the best seat in the house. Or it was, until I realized I
didn’t know the first thing about flying or landing that
plane. I mean, what if Ralph suddenly grabbed his chest and
pitched forward? What would we do? So I watched everything
Ralph did….just in case. I asked some very pointed
aeronautical questions….just in case. I even tried on
Ralph’s headset so that I could sense a connection with the
voices on the ground….just in case. But there was no way I
could learn enough, fast enough. That plane had only one
pilot. And it wasn’t me. As
it turned out, there was no cause for worry. Ralph was an
experienced pilot with a good record. And a good heart. I even
noted that when the waitress at the St. Clair Inn took the
beverage order, Ralph said: “Make mine tomato juice.” I
smiled, knowing that I was in the hands of a prudent and
responsible man. I was also in the hands of a friend. But
whether Ralph was a friend or a stranger was largely
irrelevant to my flying experience. Sitting in the copilot’s
seat, I found it did not matter whether Ralph loved me, liked
me, or merely tolerated my presence as one who came with the
deal. What mattered was Ralph’s ability to fly the plane. Another
Ralph (an embalmer by trade) once gave me one of the nicest
compliments I ever received. I had just finished speaking to
his Lion’s Club which, in those days, met in the basement of
a bar. As we were walking back to the car, Ralph said: “You
know, I love to watch a craftsman at work. I don’t care
whether it’s a meat cutter, a bricklayer, another embalmer,
or someone who does what you just did. I can’t get enough of
it.” Which
brings us back to Job. Filled with doubts….filled with
complaints….filled with uncertainties….his head swimming
with questions about God and God’s ways….his hands bloody
and raw from beating on the gates of heaven, refusing to leave
without an audience with holiness….what does Job get?
Answers? No. What Job gets, for all of his trouble, is the privilege of glimpsing a Craftsman at work. Somehow, I find myself wanting to believe that as Job listened and watched (longer than anybody has before or since), he finally tiptoed away, closing the gate quietly behind him….satisfied that even if he (Job) was still in the dark, at least God knew what God was doing. Note: Prior to the sermon, I confessed to an imbalance in my usage of the Bible for preaching, given that the last time I built a sermon around an Old Testament text was in the month of January. I then talked about the Book of Job….what it was and what it wasn’t. I suggested that the first 37 chapters alternated between Job’s lament and Job’s complaint, relative to the disproportional amount of suffering that had befallen him. But I suggested that chapters 38-42….when Job is finally granted an audience with the Almighty…. did not so much record God’s answers as God’s questions. I then said it was not too far out of line to suggest that the sum of God’s interrogation could be gathered under the heading: “So What Do You Know About Running a Universe?” Following which I read selectively from God’s questions to Job and, more pointedly, from Job’s humble responses to God….where, in effect, Job confessed that he really didn’t know much about running a universe.
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