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Once
upon a time they came from the East, found a level plain in
the Land of Shinar, and built a city where they settled. They
were as ingenious as they were industrious. They were all on
the same page, given that they were all of the same language.
There was no stopping them. But figuring that no city deserves
its name….or claims its fame….without a tower, they built
one of those, too. Higher and higher it went until its top was
said to be “in the heavens.” This, of course, was before
the days of elevators or giant construction cranes. It was
incredibly impressive. “That’ll show ‘em,” they said.
Or “That’ll show Him”….maybe that is what they said.
And
do not diminish what they accomplished. Such unanimity of
effort (labor and management) is worthy of applause. I would
love to have been there for the ribbon cutting. I could have
given the invocation, had there been one.
But
there wasn’t. You have to read between the lines to realize
that there wasn’t. But it’s there if you look for
it….the omission of the invocation, I mean. God wasn’t
addressed. So God got miffed. Elsewhere, in the same section
of scripture from which this story is drawn, we are told that
“the Lord our God is a jealous God.” Meaning that God
takes such oversights personally. So to the tower builders who
said, “We’ll show Him,” God said, “I’ll show
them.”
And
you know what happened. Sure, you know what happened. Did you
ever spend several hours building something out of Legos (or
Lincoln Logs) only to have your father (or anybody….but for
the sake of my analogy, let’s make it your father) knock it
into a zillion components, with pieces of it flying into every
nook and cranny of creation? Well, in a way of speaking,
that’s what happened to the tower. All because there was no
invoking at the ribbon cutting. God said: “We can’t have
this. We’ve got to nip this in the bud. I mean, just look:
-
They
are one people.
-
They
have one language.
-
This
is only the beginning of what they’ll do.
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And,
from this point forward, nothing they propose will be
impossible.”
So God
said: “Let us go down there.” (Who, one wonders,
constituted the “us”….unless it is the earlier “us”
of “Let us make man in our image after our likeness.”)
“Let us go down there,” said God. “Let us scatter
them….confuse their language….and put an end to this
building program once and for all.” And for years I thought
that meant that God demolished the tower. But the text
doesn’t say that in so many words. It is the people who are
scattered rather than the bricks. But the net result was the
same. The pecking order of the universe was reestablished, so
that (when measured against God Almighty) everybody knew who
they were….and, more importantly, who they weren’t.
So,
is this story history or is this story theology?
It’s theology, although its point gets played out over and
over in the pages of history. You could say it is a story
about pride going before a fall. In reality, it is a story
about pride ensuring a fall. This is one of those Bible
stories that is less about the way it was than about the way
it is. Those who invade God’s space….or assume God’s
place….shall be leveled.
Funny that
I should have used the word “story” to describe a tale
about a tower. Because in our culture….and in our
language….the word “story” is often used in association
with tall buildings. Someone asks: “How tall is that
building?” Someone else answers: “That, my friend, is a
two-story building….or a ten-story building…..or a
twelve-story building.” Which is a funny way to phrase it,
given that we could just as easily say that a building has ten
levels….or, even more to the point, ten floors….so why do
we say it has ten stories? Well, it goes back to an earlier
day in Europe, when artists painted scenes from stories known
to the people (sometimes Bible stories, sometimes local
fables) around the perimeters of buildings. In other words, if
you walked around the outside walls you could follow the plot
of the story.
This
was especially true of houses. It was a big deal to have a
story painted on the walls of your dwelling place. And when
your dwelling place was expanded upward (perhaps to
accommodate another family), the artist returned to paint
scenes from a new story around the upper level. So that when
you told a stranger where you lived….or how to find your
house….you told that stranger that you lived at the second
story (not so much on the second story, but behind
the second story). And thus it was that a word from the world
of literature became associated with the world of
architecture.
But
there’s a living, breathing story behind other inanimate
things that, in and of themselves, have neither life nor
breath. When you go to Alta Yager’s house, the first thing
you notice is her basket collection. But hers aren’t baskets
woven from reeds or sweet grass. Hers are formed from glass,
clay or materials of similar hardness.
Alta
says that when people ask if they can come and see her
baskets, she is always willing to oblige….provided they
allot at least an hour to the viewing. Because, as Alta says:
“I can’t show you the baskets without telling you the
stories….of how I got them…..where I got them…. and the
fascinating people whose lives were connected with my getting
them.” Which is why, in downsizing, Alta is expending as
much care in dispensing them as she did in collecting them.
She wants people to have them who will appreciate the stories
behind them.
Things
have stories. And many of those things become more valuable as
they age because the stories associated with them become more
precious as they age. Sometimes we keep a thing because of its
story. Other times we buy a thing because of its story. Kris
and I once bought an antique table in a village in England
because the dealer told us it came from a village church where
it held the bread and wine that once serviced communion. Since
then, virtually every other dealer who has seen it has told us
that its original home was more likely a pub than a church,
where it serviced a rather different sort of communion. In
other words, the dealer who sold it to us simply fashioned a
story to fit my profession. So we gave the table to Julie.
But
the same logic explains why, in our new house, Kris and I went
considerably overboard….both in mess created and money
expended….to rip up the old tiles and install new tiles in
the room where we eat our breakfast and read the morning
paper. Because the new tiles are not new at all. They’re
old….between 500 and 1,000 years old….when they were
originally part of the streets of Old Jerusalem. Where we have
been four times. And where Jesus was at least three times. Not
that we (or he) ever walked on them there. But the connection
is there, don’t you see. We didn’t pay all that money for
the floor. We paid all that money for the story.
Other
times people pay because of the story. Isn’t much of the
crisis of the Middle East story-related? This was never
clearer to me than a week ago Wednesday in our Christian Life
Center, when 600 people came to see a production of
Detroit’s Mosaic Youth Theater entitled Children of
Abraham. Following which I got to sit on a reaction panel
with, among others, a rabbi and an imam.
The
play was about religious differences today and their rootage
in the ancient stories of yesterday. Many of which began with
Abraham and his two sons. There was Ishmael, born to Abraham
and his wife’s servant girl, Hagar. And there was Isaac,
born to Abraham and his wife, Sarah. Most everybody knows that
it is through Isaac, the second born (which, when translated,
literally means “laughter”) that the Jewish people trace
their heritage. While it is through Ishmael, the first born
(which, literally translated, means “wanderer”) that the
Muslim people trace their heritage.
But what
most people do not know….or did not know until a week ago
Wednesday….is that both Jews and Muslims (in the Torah and
the Koran, respectively) have a story in which God challenges
the faith of Abraham by requiring him to sacrifice his son on
a makeshift altar, only to have that son spared at the last
possible moment. In the Jewish story, Isaac is prepared for
the sacrifice, only to be spared when a ram appears as a
substitute. In the Muslim story, Ishmael is prepared for the
sacrifice, only to be spared when Abraham’s knife
(heretofore trustworthy and sharp) proves too dull to cut his
son’s tender flesh. Same story. Same script. Same
sacrificial intent. Same dramatic reprieve. Same father
holding the same knife. The only difference being the name of
the victim. And to whatever degree the story is literally
true, then the Muslim version might conceivably have greater
claim to authenticity, given that (in that culture) the
sacrifice of the first born would stand as a greater sacrifice
than that of the second born. Unless, of course, the first
born didn’t count as the first born, given who his mother
was….or wasn’t.
Now
go with me to the old city of Jerusalem and climb the Temple
Mount where the Jewish temple once stood, but where a
world-famous mosque now stands. I’m talking about the Dome
of the Rock, capped entirely in gold. Let’s pause a minute
to take off our shoes before entering. Let me also issue a
warning to all of you men: Don’t touch your wives or your
girlfriends in or around the mosque. Which I did….and for
which I was loudly rebuked (“No touch. No touch.”). Then
let me take you to the center of the mosque, which is nothing
more than a rock. Albeit a very big rock. Which both Jews and
Muslims believe is Mount Moriah. And which, as both Jews and
Muslims tell it, was where Abraham brought Ishmael….or was
it Isaac?….for the sacrifice. But the Muslims are able to
trump the Jews, two stories to one, because not only was
Ishmael nearly sacrificed here, but this is the same rock from
which Mohammed and his horse ascended into heaven. Look right
over here. Can’t you see the hoof print in the rock?
That’s the last hoof of Mohammed’s horse pushing off to
glory. Maybe.
So
what does this have to do with any of us? Why do Christians
care who controls the Temple Mount? We have relatively little
investment in the near-sacrifice of Ishmael or Isaac. And we
have no investment in the heavenly ascendancy of Mohammed and
his horse. But there is a connection, don’t you see. For
while the story is not widely known, many Christians believe
that Jesus will return physically to earth and be led (back)
into Jerusalem by Elijah (Elijah being the only biblical
figure said to have ascended to heaven without first dying).
The story goes on to say that Elijah will lead Jesus into the
city through the Beautiful Gate….sometimes called the Golden
Gate. Which is alleged to be the gate of the Palm Sunday
entry. And where is that gate located? I’ll tell you where
that gate is located. Look for it at the perimeter of the
Temple Mount, adjacent to the Dome of the Rock. You can still
see the outline of the gate in the wall that surrounds the old
city. But there is no opening in the gate, given that it has
been bricked up. That way, if Elijah and Jesus do return that
way, they will have their way blocked and their plan thwarted.
One piece of real estate. Three peoples claiming it. Each,
because of a story (or stories) associated with it. Amazing.
And perplexing.
But
if you find that odd, I have a question for you. Is any
space….or anything that stands in any space….deemed sacred
apart from the stories associated with it? I remember, along
about the third or fourth grade, asking my minister where Holy
Water came from. I don’t know what answer might have pleased
me, but I suppose I was expecting him to say: “From the Holy
Water store.” I never expected him to say: “From the
sink.” But
that’s where our baptismal water comes from. There’s a
sink in the sacristy, right behind where the altos and the
basses are sitting. That’s where we get the water for
baptism every time we celebrate the sacrament. Unless, of
course, some grandparent collects water from the River Jordan
(but probably never thinks to boil it, lest in boiling the
germs out of it, they also boil Jesus out of it). No, it’s
not the water that is holy, nor is it the Jordan that is holy.
It’s the story of Jesus in the water of the Jordan that is
holy.
Throughout
our discussion of our sanctuary’s restoration, I have
listened to your stories (over and over again). You have told
me about what you did here. What God did here. How the Spirit
moved in your life here. Leading you, as a person, to say:
“Fix it….even improve it….but, for God’s sake and for
my sake, don’t mess with it.” I mean, this is the very
place where, 52 years ago, Russ Ives was carried into the
church by one woman. And where, 52 years from now, Russ will
be carried out by six men. If I know Russ, he’ll be singing
all the way. And this sanctuary has a million stories, just
like that one.
But
we can tell those stories until we are short of breath and
weak of voice. And if they are merely our
stories….especially if we become the center, sole occupant
and (worse yet) the hero of those stories….they won’t be
enough. They won’t be enough, no matter how much we tell
them or how high we pile them.
For
there’s another story, don’t you see. The other day, I
happened upon a bumper sticker which read: “If garbage
collectors and ministers went on strike the same day, which
would you miss first?”
I winced at the comparison. Because I know the answer as well
as you do. The garbage collectors would be missed first. But,
over time, I believe the clergy would be missed most. Because
when your liverwurst begins to smell, it’s one thing. But
when your lives begin to smell, it’s another. Take us
preachers away for very long and the stench will be
unbearable. Which is why it’s time we stop apologizing for
the word we preach. Not only is it a word about life and
death, but (to those who are perishing) a word of life and
death.
We have a
story that not only changes lives, but saves lives. You
remember Scheherazade? She was one of the wives of the emperor
of Persia. And Persia’s emperor was a man who was convinced
that all women were unfaithful. So he vowed he would marry a
new wife each day, have his way with her at night, and have
her executed early the next morning. Which constitutes a
rather large problem for the wife. Except that Scheherazade
was a very clever woman, one who set out to save not only her
own neck, but the necks of all the women in Persia. So on her
wedding night, she began to tell the emperor a tale that so
fascinated him, he decided to stay her execution for an
additional night so he could hear the rest of the story. You
know the outcome as well as I do. Scheherazade kept on
talking, and so fascinated the emperor that he listened to her
tales for a thousand and one Arabian nights. After which he
was sufficiently convinced of her fidelity that he made her
his consort.
Don’t
you see? Some stories are the thread upon which life itself
depends. And the “old, old story of Jesus and his love” is
the one we preachers put forth as our means of offering the
world a stay of execution. It’s what people like me tell to
people like you….in places like this….on Sundays like
these.
I
love to tell the story,
’Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and his love.
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