A story is told about Joe, who was stranded on a deserted island. Fortunately, one day a passing ship noticed smoke coming up from Joe’s campsite and rescued the poor stranded fellow. As the ship sailed away from the island, the captain noticed three primitive huts standing in a row next to each other. Curious, the captain asked Joe what the huts were for. “Well, the first hut was my house,” said Joe, “and the third hut was my church.” With his curiosity now blazing like a wildfire, the captain asked anxiously, “Well, what was the second hut for?” “Oh,” replied Joe, “that the church I used to attend.” 

We laugh at such an anecdote as it humorously highlights one of the perplexing peculiarities plaguing the American church. In a country where freedom and liberty are staples of the prevailing culture, Americans like to have choices. We want to choose everything from the color of a cell phone to the careers of our children. Burger King tells us to “have it your way,” a reminder that even when it comes to fast food fodder, your freedom to choose reigns supreme. And so, why should not our preferred place of worship also be decided by a deliberate discretion? Such is not a bad thing, in and of itself. However, to coin a baseball term, some people engage in a game of “fielder’s choice” by which they hurl their membership at whichever base, or church, that they choose, recycling this play over and over. This is how you get current Baptists who used to be Methodists before they were Episcopalians after they were confirmed as a Presbyterian.  

Do we try to recoup these members if they have joined other churches? We could do as the Catholics have done and have a “Welcome Home” Sunday on which we invite all former Methodists to come back into the Wesleyan fold. Do we desperately try to reinvent ourselves into a more “contemporary” church and jazz up our worship services? Do we have Doris learn how to play the electric guitar and ask Chris Hall to sing more like Bono, the lead singer of U2? I hope not. Rather, perhaps it’s time to change the way we even address the issue. To do that, we turn to a story involving the Apostle Paul in the book of Acts, chapter seventeen. 

The author of Acts tells us that while Paul was waiting for some associates in Athens, he saw that the city was filled with idols. Greatly distressed by this predicament, Paul, in verse seventeen, begins to reason in the synagogue with the Jews and God-fearing Greeks. But don’t miss the second part of the verse, which reads “as well as in the marketplace day by day with those who happened to be there.” 

So Paul is preaching in the marketplace. Big deal, right? I suppose, when you consider that this instance flies in the face of Paul’s previous speaking venues and engagements. Previously, Paul’s pulpit has been confined exclusively to the synagogue, amongst the religious folk of the day. In Acts 9:20, Paul preaches at the synagogue in Damascus, in 13:5 the synagogue in Cyprus, in 13:14 the synagogue in Pisidian Antioch, in 14:1 the synagogue in Iconium, in 17:2 the synagogue in Thessalonica, and if you have not yet picked up the patter, in 17:10 at the synagogue in Berea. Paul’s typical preaching venue is not in the marketplace, but rather in the typical and usual places of worship. For Paul—the former Pharisee of Pharisees, born of the tribe of Benjamin—to be in this marketplace is truly akin to being a fish out of water.  

However, Paul’s efforts are not in vain. For in verse eighteen, we learn that a group of Epicurean and Stoic philosophers began to dispute with him. And this dispute apparently inspires an invitation for Paul to preach the gospel in one of the most renown locations of the day, Areopagus, more commonly called “Mars Hill.” Paul does not waste this opportunity. In 17:22-23, he cleverly delivers his message in a vernacular familiar and accessible to the audience. Utilizing aspects of the populace’s everyday life, Paul contextualizes the gospel in such a way that leaves some of the people begging for more. What started out as an uncanny and unusual method of evangelism eventually sprang into an undoubtedly effective means of conveying the gospel message. 

Methodists are not foreigners to such methods. In April of 1739, a young preacher addressed a group of coal miners near Bristol, England. That engagement marked the genesis of a movement that would sweep literally across the world. On the invitation of his friend George Whitefield, John Wesley left the comforts of the ornate sanctuaries of the Church of England and began preaching sermons underneath a canopy of clouds and open air. At first, these uncanny methods seemed out of place in the preacher’s toolbox. However, after audiences numbering in the thousands began to congregate around these field preachers, the unusual morphed into the effective for the greater glory of God. Wesley’s partner, George Whitefield, wrote, “I believe I never was more acceptable to my Master than when I was standing to teach those hearers in the open fields.” ... “I now preach to ten times more people than I should if I had been confined to the Churches.” 

Such methods, however, did not come without cost. Although tremendously effective, Wesley, the Anglican priest, did not feel entirely comfortable in his outdoor sanctuaries. Writing in one of his journal entries, Wesley wrote, “It is no marvel that the devil does not love field preaching! Neither do I; I love a commodious room, a soft cushion, a handsome pulpit.” Do Wesley’s words often resonate within our own sentiments? After all, in such a grand sanctuary such as this, after so much time and money has been invested in the grandeur of this holy place, who wouldn’t want to preach here? However, Wesley concludes by writing, “But where is my zeal if I do not trample all these underfoot in order to save one more soul?” 

Wesley was faced with a radical yet undeniable reality. Reaching people with the good news of Jesus Christ required rolling up the sleeves and heading out into the field. To those who would never step foot inside of a church on their own accord, Wesley brought the church to them. After one experience during which Wesley preached a sermon standing atop his father’s gravesite in the town of Lincolnshire, he wrote, “I am well assured that I did far more good to my Lincolnshire parishioners by preaching three days on my father's tomb than I did by preaching three years in his pulpit” ... “To this day field preaching is a cross to me, but I know my commission and see no other way of preaching the gospel to every creature.” 

If the world was Wesley’s parish, it meant that he would have to engage the world. Leaving the stained glass palaces of the Church of England, Wesley made a fielder’s choice to make a play not commonly used by other priests of the day. At the risk of his own comfort and composure, Wesley sought first to accommodate the needs of the people. 

Donald McCullough, in his book The Trivialization of God, recounts a story told by surgeon Richard Selzer that highlights the challenge the church faces in its attempt to reach out to the world around it.  

I stand by the bed where a young woman lies, her face postoperative, her mouth twisted in palsy, clownish. A tiny twig of the facial nerve, the one to the muscles of her mouth, has been severed. She will be thus from now on. The surgeon had followed with religious fervor the curve of her flesh; I promise you that. Nevertheless, to remove the tumor in her cheek, I had to cut the little nerve.

Her young husband is in the room. He stands on the opposite side of the bed, and together they seem to dwell in the evening lamplight, isolated from me, private. Who are they, I ask myself, he and his wry-mouth I have made, who gaze at and touch each other so generously, greedily? The young women speaks. 

“Will my mouth always be like this?”  she asks.

“Yes,” I say, “it will. It is because the nerve was cut.”

She nods and is silent. But the young man smiles.

“I like it,” he says. “It is kind of cute.”

And so St. Paul will bravely venture out into the marketplace, driven by his distress for those deceived by idol worship. Early Methodist circuit riders will traverse thousands of miles at the risk of death and disease for the sake of the gospel. And Wesley will embrace the calling of field preaching though it weighs heavily upon his heart.  

And what will we do? The luxury of a pristine pulpit like this one is not always practical. So let me ask you this one question: “What will FUMC’s other pulpits look like?” Promulgating the peace of Christ in this world requires imagination, innovation, and an unquenchable spirit fully devoted to the service of God. For when we embrace this calling, this Wesleyan heritage of being people of the field, we will see new opportunities before us. No venue will be off limits for where we will dare to proclaim the good news of Jesus Christ. No location will be too undesirable and few means will seem too outrageous. Will this church be a leader in the Conference for inventing and implementing new ministries that thrive on the uncanny and launch from the supposedly ludicrous? Will we allow new means of ministry and innovative ideas of outreach to dominate our discussion, even at the expense of our comfort? Are you willing to dream with Jack, Rod, Lynn, Carl, Jeff and the other staff regarding through what uncanny means might we convey the love of God to the world around us? Will we dare to dream of venturing out from this Birmingham Bunker to discover what proclaiming the gospel means in Prague or Pontiac, Costa Rica or Cass Community, Estonia or Eight Mile Road? 

Our very spiritual heritage calls to us to return to our roots and reclaim the mantle of Methodism. Now that is what I call a fielder’s choice.