 Dr. William A. Ritter Senior Minister |
Making
Room
Sermon:
Scripture: |
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Long
after I forgot the very bad joke it fits, I remembered the
punch line: “Everybody’s gotta be some place.” Well,
truth be told, everybody does. We are space-taking people,
although some of us take up more space than others. When I was
researching the 50-year history of this sanctuary, I came
across a notation suggesting that this wonderful worship space
can seat in excess of 600 souls. Now as to whether Methodist
“souls” have swelled, shrunk or stayed the same size over
the last half century, I can’t rightly say. But if this
place once held “in excess of 600 souls,” those souls came
packaged in much smaller bodies. Or
maybe we haven’t changed size all that much. Maybe we just
crave a bit more elbow room between me and thee….meaning
that sanctuary seating limitations have more to do with greed
than bloat. At the University of Michigan, where stadium seats
are numbered in the belief that only midgets go to watch
behemoths, there is constant talk of reconfiguration, so as to
give all of us a few more inches. Thankfully, they tell me
that at the Lions’ new playpen downtown, they’ve actually
done it. I guess Ford really does have a better idea. Several
years ago, my daughter attended Peachtree Road United
Methodist Church in Atlanta. Which was how it came to pass
that after years of her mother and I taking her to church, she
returned the favor. One Sunday morning, while not exactly
late, we did have to jostle the choir to get into the
sanctuary, claiming three in the back row….the last three in
the back row. But that didn’t deter people coming later than
us. While the choir walked down the center aisle, they walked
down the side aisles….clogging them….leaning against the
outer walls….all in all, quite unseemly. Surely a fire
hazard, I thought. But
you can imagine my surprise when, between the end of the hymn
and the beginning of the Call to Worship, the liturgist (thank
God it was the Associate) said: “Okay folks, you know the
drill. Everybody in the pews, squeeze. Everybody in the
aisles, sit.” And they did. Quietly. Passively. Agreeably.
Like sheep. Last
week I quoted a couple of lines from West Side Story’s
“Tonight” (my second favorite song from my all-time
favorite musical). The whole cast sings it when the day is
very much ripe….and their lives are very much in front of
them. But my favorite song….introduced not by horns, violins
or even castanets, but by a very lonely cello….is the song
that closes the play. It is when Tony and Maria (the lovers)
sing together one last time. “Last,” because he is
dying….in her arms….of a bullet….from a rumble….during
a gang war….over turf control on the streets of New York. I
can hear them now:
There’s a place for us, Everybody’s
got to be some place. And woe unto those, this Christmas, who
find themselves misplaced, displaced, replaced or (for any
number of reasons) uncomfortably out of place. I am talking
about the brown-shoe people in a black-shoe world….or maybe
even the no-shoe people in an over-shoed world. As
many of you know, my wife now works at Cass Church and
Community Center. She is the part-time coordinator of
volunteers for the wonderful new Scott Building (into which a
lot of us have poured money, sweat and love). They do it all
at the Scott Center (with folks the Bible often refers to as
“the least of these”). And
in dealing with the homeless, they do so in multiple
levels….from semi-permanent residents who enjoy two floors
of very private, well-kept rooms, to people who sleep on mats
on the floor. But even the latter group….the “floor
folk”….do all kinds of amazing things to stake out their
space….to define it, protect it, repel encroachment into it,
or turn back trespass against it. Sometimes it’s hard to
know where those invisible boundaries are until they have been
breached. But they had better not be breached, lest the
breachee come up swinging. Faith
Fowler has been at Cass for nearly a decade now. I worry that
she is walking a tightrope between burnout and sainthood. But
she perseveres with a little help from her friends. Which is
why, on the day Jesus asks me to account for the space I took
up on earth, I want to be able to say: “One good thing I
did, Lord; I was Faith’s friend.” And
Faith’s favorite story of ministry at Cass (growing out of
the day she turned to her dog and said, “Guess what, Toto,
we’re not in Kansas anymore”) was the day she was trying
to do holy paperwork in her office, only to be interrupted by
the incessant knocking of a very much under-dressed and
over-painted lady. Who, upon entering, pointed to a
14-year-old girl she had dragged in by the arm, and said:
“Rev. Fowler, tell her to get off my corner.” Everybody’s
got to be some place. Which is why even the hookers and the
homeless resent intrusion. When Rev. Fowler sent the cowering
14-year-old with a social worker in search of some food to
fill her belly and a coat to cover her body, the veteran
prostitute calmed down a bit and said: “Rev. Fowler, it’s
true. I don’t want her on my corner. But she’s too young
to be on any corner. And if there’s any place that can save
her, it’s Cass Church.” Everybody’s
got to be some place. Except Jesus. For when it came time for
God’s beautifully-orchestrated coming out party for our
Lord, would you believe there wasn’t a single ballroom
available anywhere in Bethlehem. More to the point, there
wasn’t a single birthing room available anywhere in
Bethlehem. For they had stumbled into a strange town….late
at night….with lots of people and no room. “No
room at the inn,” Luke says. My gosh, was there only
one….inn, I mean? Luke doesn’t say. In reality, the text
is incredibly spartan. Even the definitions are imprecise.
“Inn” is probably not the best translation. “Lodge” is
currently the word in favor. Although in 150 A.D., Justin made
a good case for the birth of Jesus taking place in a cave. And
there are those (well versed in first century living
configurations) who figure that “cave” was what it was
then, and what it should be now. The Greek word is katalyma….which
is actually a pasted-together word, suggesting “a place
where one lets down one’s harness (or baggage) for the
night.” But in my research, I keep coming across the word caravansary….a
public place where entire groups of travelers might spend a
night together (not unlike the waiting room of a train
station, with or without a roof). Note,
for purity of text’s sake, that there is no innkeeper….no
innkeeper’s wife….no innkeeper’s scullery maids….no
innkeeper’s servant boys….no Amahl and the night
visitors….no little drummer boy….and no animals, except by
inference. After all, if Jesus uttered his first cry from a
feeding trough, something on four legs must have fed there.
But if you want to be technical, you should probably forget
about sheep, goats, cattle and camels. Instead, you might want
to view the scene through the lens of an 800-year-old
prophesy, where oxen and asses were the animals of choice (at
least according to Isaiah 1:3). As
to why there is no room, don’t go looking for villains here.
Let’s lay to rest, forever, Stephen Vincent Benet’s greedy
innkeeper….who, in Benet’s words, “loved the sound of
coin….loved it, in fact, more than life itself.” Truth
be told, the reason there is no room for this little trio (or,
at the time of their arrival, this little two-thirds of a
trio) is because other people got there first. Did that ever
happen to you…. other people getting there first, I mean?
Sure, that’s happened to you. The other guests got there
first. The other diners got there first. The other applicants
got there first. The other candidates got there first. The
go-getters got there first. The fast-trackers got there first.
The old boyfriend got there first. Besides,
they didn’t come by Cadillac or Caravan. And nothing about
the sweatshirt Mary was wearing screamed “FUTURE KING,”
with an arrow pointing down at her belly. So who was to know? Still,
everybody’s got to be some place. So, thank God (and I
really mean, “thank God”), somebody created a place.
“Prepared him room,” I mean. Which, whenever it happens
still, causes “heaven and nature to sing”….does it not? If
there is a colossal error in my ministry (and there may be),
it’s that, for 38 years, I have been guilty of drawing too
few lines and opening too many doors. But, then, you know that
about me. And you have grown to tolerate that in me. About
two weeks ago, I had a dream. I don’t usually tell you my
dreams, for fear of what you may see in them and therefore
think of me. In fact, I’ve only told you one other
dream….in my first sermon….on my first Sunday….at our
first meeting. On that occasion, I talked about “the
unpreparedness dream” (which is common to a lot of us). In
its most classic form, it is final exam day….in high
school….but you haven’t read the book….haven’t been to
class….can’t find the room….can’t find your
pencil….or maybe your pants. You know that dream. But
this dream was different. I was at camp. It was clearly a
Methodist camp. In fact, it looked remarkably like Judson
Collins Camp out in the Irish Hills. I was there as the
minister-in-charge of a group from this church. Many of you
were there, too. I think most of you were young. But not all
of you were young. Anyway, we were all together in the dining
room, just prior to the evening meal. And they (the camp
staff) were laying out a wonderful spread….a grand and
glorious smorgasbord, really….quite unlike any food I ever
ate at Judson Collins. I mean, the tables just went on and on. Which
was when one of you whispered in my ear that someone else had
come….actually two someone elses. Not that I remember who
they were or why they weren’t there from the get-go. All I
remember is that they weren’t in the count, don’t you see.
“Could they stay and eat?” you pleaded. And I said: “I
am sure they can. Why just look at all that food.” So
I went to the kitchen people and made my request. But they
said no….no way….the count is what it is….sealed on the
day I gave it….sacred from that point forward. So I offered
to pay. Still, “no.” Then I said: “What if I don’t
eat? Can one of them sit down to the table in my place?”
Again, “no.” Still pleading, I tried everything I could
think of. So at last they said: “We’ll call the camp
manager.” Figuring
that I could count on there being sense and sensitivity in the
supreme court of campdom, I confidently stated my case.
Leading him to laugh in my face. So I said (and I am not proud
of this….no, I am not proud of this at all): “See if you
ever get even one apportionment dollar from First Church
again.” Whereupon he said something unprintable, which
included: “Who did I think I was, trying to play Big Bucks
Billy?” Which is when I elevated an entire end of one table
of salads so that they slid to the floor (a slow-motion
waterfall of ambrosia and lettuce leaves). Instantly,
I recanted, repented and began cleaning up the mess. Which is
when I woke in a sweat, not knowing whether I was more shocked
by my conviction about all of us eating, or my anger upon
discovering that all of us couldn’t. But
let me push this….and you….one step further. I can make an
adequate sermon out of whether they made room for
Jesus….whether we’ll make room for Jesus….or whether
we’ll make room for each other (in the name of Jesus). But
somehow, this sermon won’t seem complete unless I also
remind you that the one for whom there was no room, promised
to go ahead and make room for us. “In my Father’s house
are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that
I go and prepare a place for you. And I will come again and
receive you unto myself, that where I am you may be also.” Leading
me to close with a story, which (in my earlier days here) some
of you heard me tell at funerals. But I have never told it on
Sundays….until now. It concerns a time in my life when I was
both young and invincible. I figured I could do virtually
anything, including driving maximal distances on minimal rest.
So one morning I started before sun-up….drove through
snacking hours….lunching hours….nappy hours….happy
hours….dinner hours….darkening hours….midnight
hours….all the while, confident that if I could just keep at
it, I had prearranged lodging at the end of it. Finally,
in the wee hours of the morning, I found my exit, parked my
car, and entered the inn of prior choosing. There was still a
desk clerk on duty, even though she was half asleep. So I
announced my presence in a louder than usual voice.
“Ritter,” I said. “I have a reservation.” When that
generated no response, I repeated my name again, this time
spelling it. “I am Mr. Ritter….R I T T E R….I have a
reservation.” Still, she said nothing. But she did scan a
small stack of 3 by 5 cards, slipping them much-too-quickly
between her thumb and forefinger. It occurred to me that she
already knew my name wasn’t on any of those cards. But she
didn’t say so. Instead, she excused herself and went to the
back room. I am not sure what she did there. But if there is a
manual that trains desk clerks, I am sure on the middle of
page seven it reads: “When confused and in doubt, excuse
yourself and go to the back room for five minutes, thereby
allowing yourself the opportunity to think of something.” What
she thought of was to come back and say: “I am terribly
sorry, Mr. Ritter. There must be some mistake. For we have
absolutely no record of your existence.” Weary as I was, I
was still quite certain that I existed. But I didn’t say
that. Instead, I said: “Not to worry, just give me any room
you happen to have.” Which was when she told me that she
didn’t happen to have any. So again I said: “Not to worry.
I passed several of your competitors on my way into your
parking lot. Point me in the direction of one of them and make
a phone call on my behalf, alerting them to my imminent
arrival.” Which, while a great plan, didn’t work either.
For again she said: “I am sorry, Mr. Ritter, but we tried
that half an hour ago for someone in your situation.
Everybody’s full. There’s a convention in town.” Now
she had given me all the bad news she could possibly give me
in a single evening. So, as her final word, she said: “But
if you’re ever in our fair city again, please come back and
give us a chance to make it right.” Which led me wearily to
the car and the open road, knowing yet another meaning of
Frost’s immortal line: “And miles to go before I sleep.” Wrap
the gospel around that one last time. “In my Father’s
house are many rooms. Were it not so, would I have told you
that I go and prepare a place for you?” Translated, I take
that to mean that God knows we’re out here and has made more
than adequate provision against the day of our dying. *
* * * * Everybody’s got to be some place. Save for Jesus. For whom there was no place. When he came to our place. But when we get to his place, Ah….when we get to his place….
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