Sermon:
June 12, 2005
8:15 a.m. Morning Service and Sunday Night Alive

Scripture:
Matthew 11:25-30

Let’s begin with Zan Holmes….down Texas way….who recalls an incident from his younger days in an earlier church. 

We had a little dog in those years, a rather undisciplined terrier who answered to the name of “Brownie.” And since our parsonage was in a rather heavily trafficked part of town, we didn’t figure it was safe to let Brownie run free in the yard. So we attached his collar to a length of chain….and attached the chain to a pole in the center of the yard. That way, if Brownie wanted to run (which was every time a human being was sniffed or sighted), he would race round and round the pole, with the length of his chain defining the outer limits of his mobility. In fact, the circle in which he traveled became so familiar that no grass would grow where Brownie ran.

Then one day I looked out the window and discovered that, as most chains eventually do, this chain had snapped. There was Brownie….free at last…. running for everything he was worth….in the same old familiar circles. He was free and didn’t know it. Why? Because he was still hung up on his past hang-ups. 

As are a lot of us. Many of us have come this morning, still tethered to pieces of our past….to the degree that free and unhindered motion remains a virtual impossibility. 

Some of us are tethered to scars from the past that will not heal. Life has wounded us. Love has wounded us. Enemies have hurt us plenty. Friends (and sometimes family) have hurt us more. That thick skin we show the world….it’s scar tissue. Behind it can be found a litany of betrayals. People who said one thing and did another. People who said good things but did worse things. People who went back on their word. People who weren’t as good as their word. People who came upon us in moments of desperate need, and spoke not a word. And people who lied. 

Much of which was awful when it happened. And some of which became more awful with each passing year. That’s because some of us have nursed our wounds….never quite letting them scab over….but occasionally picking away at them, the better to watch them bleed. To be sure, wounds cannot heal until they bleed. But I’ve never heard anyone make a case suggesting that healing accelerates with multiple re-bleedings.

Some people rehearse the same crimes and misdemeanors over and over, telling them to anyone who will listen. It becomes part of their story….their explanation….their excuse….for not having gotten on with it (whatever “it” was that needed getting on with….job….friendship…. marriage….life). “Why haven’t I seen you suited up and out on life’s playing field?” I ask. To which you answer: “I’ve been hurt, you know. You don’t expect me to play hurt, do you?” 

Meanwhile, others of us are tethered by sins from the past that will not fade. Once upon a time, we did something. Which made us feel bad. Or we kept on doing the same thing. Which made us feel worse. I’ve heard a lot of sophisticated definitions of sin in my time, including some I have written myself. But I can never quite dismiss the kid in my first youth group who threw his two cents into the theological hopper when he said: “Sin? I guess sin is what I feel bad after.” 

Sometimes our sins are discovered. Sometimes not. Which may be worse. Because sin that is kept hidden from public sight often moves to the forefront of private mind….where it becomes the stuff of secret shame, crippling guilt or a self-image that is pitted by spiritual acne. 

“I’m not as good as you think I am, Reverend.”

“If you really knew me, you wouldn’t want me in your church.” 

People really say such things. Some in jest. But many in earnest. Among my most difficult conversations are those that begin with someone saying: “For as long as you’ve known me, Bill, there are things you don’t know about me.” 

Old scars! Old sins! Sometimes time tricks us, so that we’re not even sure where we got them….or how long we’ve had them. Some of us even think we hide them pretty well. But they slip out. Among the Christmas letters we got one year was one from an old friend, now largely distanced from our lives. She is divorced. Kids are grown. Grandchildren are coming. She has travels to take and tales to tell. All of which she told….that Christmas….in her letter. But the letter went on longer than most do. And the words became more bitter than most are. For what was being rehearsed (paragraph upon painful paragraph) was the divorce. What caused it. Who caused it. Who did what. Who said what. Who made off with what. Who was (or was not) left with what….when the ink was dry on the settlement. And it’s been quite a while since the ink was dry. The divorce is relatively old news. 

As to whether her letter was all scars….or whether there were some sins in there, too….I do not know. All I know is that she didn’t sit down to write that letter….didn’t think she’d sent that letter…..and would be surprised if she knew how the rest of us read that letter. That’s because, all things considered, she thinks she’s doing well. Which she is. And yet… 

* * * * * 

You’ve noticed, of course, that when people come to the start of the new year….a new job….a new semester….or a new phase in their life….their talk turns to the making of resolutions. Clean page time. Fresh start time. Each January 2, there are more people in the locker room of my athletic club than any other week. It’s that way every January. All’s well that starts well. Yet when you read the cartoons and comic strips shortly after New Year’s, you’ll be amazed to discover how many story lines focus on the utter futility of bothering to resolve anything. It is as if they are saying: “What’s the use? After all, we are who we are. We do what we do. We bring what we bring. What you see is what you get.” 

Well, I suppose there’s something to be said for realism. But before you accommodate yourselves to the future by settling too quickly for too little, let me tell you a story.  

Once upon a time, there was a man who carried a brown bag virtually everywhere he went. No one knew where the bag came from. But there were some who said that his carrying of it went back a long way, maybe even to his cradle. When he was a child, he hung onto the brown bag wherever he went. Kids at school would tease him about it. And more than one teacher suggested that he leave it in his locker. But he steadfastly hung onto it, as if it were an indispensable part of his existence. 

When he was in high school, he went out for football….and was actually known to have carried his brown bag into the huddle. The coach said: “Do that one more time and you’ll never play for me again.” So he forced himself to leave it on the bench. But not without warning everybody against touching it, and placing it in a visible spot in order to make certain no one did. No one knew what was in the brown bag. But neither had anyone seen him without it. He took it with him everywhere, even on dates. As close as any girl ever got to him on the front seat of the car, the brown bag was closer. 

As he became an adult, there was less talk about his bag. He still carried it. People could still see it. But politeness led almost everyone to ignore it. And he became a bit more sophisticated about it, to the point of occasionally slipping it into his briefcase or tucking it under his coat. Still, on his wedding day, he carried it down the aisle with him. Black tux. Black tie. Black shoes. Brown bag. But who would have expected otherwise? After all, he took his bag everywhere. Off to work. Out to play. Down to the basement. Up to bed. It was the one thing he never checked when he went to the airport. And it was the only thing he never forgot when leaving the house. One night, after a couple too many pina coladas, his wife said: “You’re going to carry that brown bag to your grave.” But what she was actually wondering was whether he would look unnatural if she laid him out without it in his casket. 

One day, in his late forties, he left his office at lunchtime, feeling the need to go for a walk. Which was how he came to pass the church that was offering a mid-day service for time-crunched office workers. Not quite knowing why, he found himself walking in. And not quite knowing what to do, he found himself sitting down. The fact that the minister was getting up to preach made him moderately grateful that he wouldn’t have to stay a long time, and extremely grateful that he wouldn’t have to sing. But when the minister opened the Bible and read, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and who carry a brown bag,” he inched forward to hear whatever might be coming next, even as he began to fidget (unconsciously, and more than a little nervously) with his own brown bag.  

The minister talked, both warmly and wisely, about the burdens most of us carry through life. Then he said: “Any of you who labor and are heavy laden, and who carry a brown bag, are welcome to leave your burdens (and your bag) on the altar.” Which, surprisingly, several people did. And for the very first time in his life, the man noticed that a lot of other people were carrying brown bags, too. 

So timidly at first (and then hurriedly….as if to get it over with before he chickened out), he headed for the altar. Which, by now, was piled high with bags. When he got there, he stood for a long time….bag in hand….not quite certain what he wanted (or was ready) to do. Finally, he let it go….left it behind….and went. 

Walking back down the aisle, he was surprised by how good he felt. And walking out of the church, he was amazed at feeling better still. He felt so good that he wanted to shout. But shouting was not his style. So he settled for clapping his hands together. And he couldn’t believe how easily he could clap, once he no longer had to lay his brown bag aside in order to be able to do so. Later on, he found the same to be true for a lot of things….like working….waving…. hugging….and praying. 

* * * * * 

“Come unto me, all ye who labor and are heavy laden….and who carry a brown bag. And I will give you rest.” 

Brown bags represent a lot of things in our culture. Children use them to carry sandwiches to school. Winos use them to carry bottles of cheap muscatel from curb to curb. Homeless ladies use them to carry their worldly goods from shelter to shelter. And recently, in beautiful downtown Clawson, I saw a lingerie stored named “Brown Bag It,” and found myself wondering what kind of lingerie one might buy….and for whom….that would best be carried from the premises in a brown bag. 

But you know that’s not the brown bag I’m talking about. And you’ve also figured out why there’s a brown bag inserted in your worship bulletin this morning. It’s there to remind us that we all carry one….and that most of us are looking for somewhere to leave it. We’ve tried ignoring it. We’ve tried hiding it. Some of us have tried showing the contents of our bag to other members of our family….in hopes that they might take out of the bag some of the stuff we figure they put into it in the first place. But not only wouldn’t they take anything out, they wouldn’t let us get out the door until they’d put more stuff in. And some of us have even tried dropping our bags and running, only to have the finders come running after us, thinking we would reward them for their diligence. 

But it doesn’t have to be that way. It really doesn’t. There is some place you can leave it, knowing that it will be carried for you. I don’t know what you may be carrying into this church today. I don’t know all of your scars and sins. Neither do I know all of the ways in which you have been wounded, bruised or short-changed by life. All I can offer is a gospel that says you don’t have to carry what you can’t carry. So if you want to use the bag in your bulletin as a means of responding to what the gospel offers, it’s all right with me. 

So why not take that bag and put some of your burdens inside it, this very morning. Sins. Wounds. Painful memories. Unresolved conflicts. Whatever. Stuff ’em in there. Maybe you’ll want to take out a pen or a pencil and write your burden on the bag itself. Then fold it. No one will read it. Ever. I promise.  

In a moment, Jan Albright is going to sing the gospel’s promise. Then we’re going to sing a hymn. And if (during the solo or the hymn) you want to bring your bag forward and put it in one of these big bags in the front of the chancel, feel free to do so. Jan won’t mind. Neither will anybody else. Or if you can’t bring yourself to do that….yet still have a bag you want to leave at the church….come up after the service when no one is looking. And if the whole idea seems hokey, ask yourself: “Is it the mechanics of leaving my bag which make me uncomfortable, or is it the idea of letting it go?” 

Later, I am going to collect the big bag. I am going to bring it to the altar. I am going to pray over it. Then I am going to burn it. On Ash Wednesday, when we have our fourteen-hour, come-and-go Communion Service, some of those ashes will be available, should anyone want to use them. That way, they will become a sign (however briefly) of the burdens that we are supposed to carry for each other. 

“Come unto me, all ye who labor and are heavy laden….and who carry a brown bag. For you will find rest unto your souls.” 

Note: The “Brown Bag” story is obviously apocryphal. I don’t have the faintest idea where it originated. I first happened upon it, courtesy of a tip provided by Carl Price. My primary source is Thomas Lane Butts, a gifted colleague and friend who preaches in Alabama. But Tom admits that the story didn’t originate with him, either. Who knows where it originated? It circulates because it is good. And because it is true. Which is why I stole it. In point of fact, most preachers are thieves. The secret lies in learning to steal “good stuff.”