 Dr. William A. Ritter Senior Minister |
Even
As I Am Fully Known
Sermon:
Scripture: |
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It seemed
odd when she said it, but (as I was soon to learn) there was
much more to it. She was bright, vivacious, talented,
attractive and young. He was bright, vivacious, talented,
handsome and less young. Color her, mid-twenties. Color him,
pushing forty….not as in nudging forty, so much as in
shoving forty. He was my friend. My divorced friend. She was
his friend. His new friend. His new, never-before-married
friend. Her
odd remark came in a casual conversation about their alikes
and differences. Swimming, supposedly, was one of the “alikes.”
“I love it,” she said. “He claims to love it, too. But,
for as many times as I suggest it, he makes excuses not to do
it.” Which he let pass while she was present. But once we
were alone, he came clean. I suppose
you are wondering about the swimming thing. I like swimming,
boating, water-skiing….all those things. But I’ve got a
hang-up that is connected to the difference in our ages. I’m
getting a little thin on top (if you know what I mean). But
with a creative comb-over that I’ve mastered (and a liberal
amount of hairspray), I can hide it. Except in the water.
Which, were I to enter, might blow my cover. This relationship
looks promising. But there is this thing about our ages. What
if she sees “bald” and thinks “old?” I’m not sure
I’m ready to risk it. Don’t be
too hard on him. Because most of us have been him….and, to
some degree, still are him. It’s not so much a matter of
concealing, so much as a matter of packaging. We have multiple
versions of the “creative comb-over”….very few of which
have to do with hair. I’m
not so far into aging so as to have forgotten dating.
Especially early-in-the-game dating. I packaged myself so as
to impress. Clean car. Clean shirt. Clean shaven. I got my act
together. I mean, dating was competitive. Fiercely
competitive. That’s because there was always a rival. Every
girl I desired most, I had to steal first. Including the
present one. Which required packaging on my part. Eminently
doable. But hardly sustainable. One can’t keep up that pace
forever. So I didn’t. Eventually, the real Ritter surfaced.
Or, to be more accurate, the parts of Ritter which didn’t
fit the package leaked out of the package. Leaving me exposed. In
that wonderful tale (which is less the story of one of us,
than the story of all of us), Adam has already gone the
“forbidden fruit route,” discovering his nakedness in the
process. We’re talking “blown cover,” here. So Adam,
knowing God’s penchant for unscheduled check-ins with his
creation, does two things. He sews an apron for wearing. And
he seeks some trees for hiding. Which,
from the get-go, is not a picture I like. There he is, our
ancestor, concealed and cowering. Why couldn’t the Bible
begin with a story of God coming to visit Adam in Adam’s
office….on the top floor of Adam’s office building….with
Adam’s name on the door….Adam’s oils on the
wall….Adam’s etchings on the credenza….and Adam’s
offspring, pictured on the desk? Why
couldn’t God sit in the outer office, cooling his heels,
till Adam is able to free himself from the phone? Then God
could be buzzed in. Adam could send a courier for coffee
(would God like one lump or two?). Then Adam could take God
over to the window….the big window….the big Andersen
window….where Adam could show God just how much one can see
from there. But
that’s not the story the Bible gives us in Genesis 3. True,
we get a version of that story in Genesis 11. That’s where
we see the big tower. It doesn’t say “office tower,”
although it could be an office tower. All it says is that the
top floors nearly touch heaven. Which floors God
levels….with or without coffee. But
we’re not there today. We’re here today. With Adam hiding
behind a tree. Unsuccessfully. God knows where he is. And what
he’s done. Or, in the words of the old spiritual, there’s
“no hiding place down here.” Which is supposed to be
comforting. Except it isn’t always. After all, aren’t
there privacy laws concerning such things? And shouldn’t God
have to obey them? Kris
and I were out to dinner the other night with two other
couples. Both couples being good friends of ours….but very
good friends of each other. Just before the waitperson came
with her notebook and pen, one of the women who was not my
wife said to the other woman who was not my wife: “I know
what you’re going to have.” And she did. Main course.
Salad course. Dressing for the salad course. It was a huge
menu. But she knew her friend so well that she could read her
friend as well as she could read the menu. About which they
laughed. And there was comfort in the laughter. But a hint of
irritation, too. Isn’t
that one of the paradoxes of marriage? Namely, how good it
feels to be fully known. And how irritating it feels to be
fully known. While I can still occasionally surprise my wife,
I long ago passed the point where I could fool my wife. Like
the back of her hand….that’s how she knows me. Like a
well-worn book….that’s how she reads me. I both love it
and hate it when she begins a sentence with the words: “I
haven’t lived with you for 37 years without learning a
little bit about you….” The longer we stay married, the
shorter our arguments get. Because we know each other’s
points and can say each other’s lines. Which is why most
arguments end in laughter. After a while, even the bumpy roads
are familiar. And once you see where they are going to end up,
why not break them off early with a good laugh and save
ourselves some time. Still,
one of the last freedoms we hold onto in any relationship is
the freedom to conceal. “I’ll tell you this….won’t
tell you that. I’ll show you these cards….won’t show you
those cards. I’ll tip half my hand….won’t tip my whole
hand.” I
am not a trained therapist. And I wouldn’t be a good one,
were I a trained one. That’s because I’m impatient. I want
to cut through the crap faster than others want to cut through
it. Although Dr. Laura does it in five minutes….like a hot
knife….through butter. But one of the things I have learned
about therapy is that you should listen to what people don’t
say, even more than you listen to what they do say. Listen for
where they change the subject….skirt the subject….dance
all around the subject….or superficialize a subject that
would appear to be anything but superficial. Better yet,
listen closest to the awkward and uncomfortable silences. Nearly
35 years ago, a young lady came into my office to do a bit of
churchy business. Baptism?….Yes. For your lovely
daughter?….Yes. Date, time, forms, godparents?….Sure, we
can handle those. Procedures?….Let me describe them.
Differences between us and the Catholics?….Let me explain
them. Roses on the altar?….I’ll tell the secretary. Brunch
at the house?….I’ll talk to Kris. Pictures
following?….Why not? Flashes during the ceremony?….
Please, not. These were the questions she was asking me. But
having covered everything there was to cover, why didn’t she
go? What else could there be? Was she making up things to say
so as to be able to stay? Why were her words coming slower and
her smiles growing fewer? Why was she looking more and more
uncomfortable, with one hand going to her mouth, far too
often….as if there were words in her throat she didn’t
know whether to pull the rest of the way out or push all the
way back in? Finally, I heard myself say: “I could be wrong,
but I get the feeling there is something else you are trying
to tell me.” Which was when I heard her say, almost
inaudibly: “I’m not sure this child is my husband’s.” The
psalmist prays:
To
which the question of the day is not: “Is that what the
Bible calls omniscience?” For the record, it is. But who
cares? The real question of the day being: “Is that good
news or bad? That God knows it all, I mean.” And
don’t go getting sidetracked into predestination
issues….thinking that the reason God knows it all is because
God scripts it all. On this side of Pleasant Street….the
east side of Pleasant….the Methodist side of Pleasant….we
kind of suspect God doesn’t (script it all, I mean). On the
other side of Pleasant….the west side of Pleasant….the
Presbyterian side of Pleasant….they kind of suspect God does
(script it all, I mean). But
none of us knows for sure. Besides, that’s not what I asked
you. The question I asked was: “If God knows you as well as
the psalmist says God knows you, is that good news or bad?” Frankly,
the psalmist isn’t sure. For while your version of the Bible
reads “such knowledge is too wonderful for me,” the more
accurate rending of the Hebrew reads “too overpowering for
me is your knowledge.” Which is followed by that long
section of Psalm 139 which lists all of the places God can’t
be hidden from….suggesting (methinks) that the psalmist has
considered hiding in them all. Writes
Paul: “Now I know (God) in part. One day I shall know (God)
fully. Even as (God) fully knows me.” People read that at
many of my weddings. Which I have concluded is all right, even
though Paul’s passage has nothing to do with weddings.
Because marriage may be as close as we come (in this life) to
being fully known in the context of love. Which
is not automatic. Nothing about marriage is automatic. People
walk away upon discovering that, where the spouse is
concerned, they are seeing things today that they weren’t
seeing yesterday. Or as one unhappy woman said to me: “The
more I see, the less I like.” That’s why marriage is risky
business. But when it works like it’s been designed to
work….like it works for people like Jerry and Betty LaBrake
(who are celebrating their 50th this week)….the more you
see, the better you feel. And the closer you get. Because
it’s good to know there is at least one person in your life
you can’t fool….to the point that you eventually stop
trying….and to the further point that you no longer want to. Over
the years, I have gone to a lot of surprise birthday parties
thrown by one spouse for the other spouse. Some of which have
worked (as genuine surprises, I mean). And others of which
haven’t. But once everybody jumps from behind the
curtain….or out of the cake…and shouts “Surprise,”
there is always a debriefing of sorts that takes place between
the spouses. One spouse wants to know: “Were you surprised.
I mean, really surprised?” To which the other spouse says:
“Sure I was surprised….at least sort of surprised.”
Which is when the spouse who planned the party will say:
“The hardest part involved all the things I had to hide from
you….all the plans I couldn’t share with you….(worse
yet) all the lies I had to tell you. Because that’s so not
us.” Jesus
tells a woman a hard truth about her life….that she’s had
a wedding ring for every digit on her left hand (including her
thumb). And even now, she is shacking up (Dr. Laura’s
language) with Seymour the Sixth without benefit of clergy. So
how does Jesus know?
But the story is not about how Jesus knew. The story is about how she felt about him knowing. For, as you will remember, she felt darned good. So much so, that at the bar later that night, she said to anyone willing to listen: I met a guy today. No, it’s not what you think. This guy was different. He told the truth to me. And about me. Go figure. I can’t. But if you like, I’ll take you to him. Ain’t no reason I’m the only one who should feel this good. It’s
fun to fool people. But only for a while. A couple of weeks
from now, a whole bunch of little people will come to your
door, all costumed and concealed. They’ll be expecting
candy. And you’ll look at them and say: “Oh my gosh, a
witch….(or) Would you believe, a real live fairy
princess?…..(or) Come on out here, Beatrice, and shake hands
with Batman.” Only to hear the kid giggle and say: “It’s
just me, Mary.” Or “You know me, Mr. Jones. I’m Billy
from next door.” They want the truth to surface. As
did the little kid who, during a game of hide and seek, hid
too well. He started out by saying: “They’ll never find
me. Nobody will ever find me.” But if the game goes on too
long, that same kid panics and wonders if
“anybody will ever find me.” Sooner
or later, everybody wants to be “outed.” If not to
everybody, to somebody. And if not to somebody, at the very
least to deity. “It’s me….it’s me….it’s me, O Lord. Don’t be fooled by the comb-over.”
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