|
A
parable, a statistic and a post script…
The
Parable
Once upon a time, a group of
people in a small town realized their town was in trouble.
So they built a swimming pool, opened it to the neighborhood
and invited everyone to come. And the people came. And they
were happy. They discovered a new sense of community and the
whole town was renewed.
The idea spread to other towns
and soon there were swimming pools in every town and every
neighborhood. Soon there were so many swimming pools, they
decided to form an Association of United Swimming Pools and
a Synod of Swimming Pools in America, and the movement
spread like wildfire.
Eventually it seemed nearly
everyone belonged to a swimming pool, so there was little
need to go through the neighborhood inviting others. The
associations began to focus on things like pool operation,
pool architecture and the proper code of conduct for
swimming events. They spent more and more time caring for
the pools—fixing cracks, draining and cleaning—and spent
less and less time actually swimming.
When they drained and cleaned
the pool, often they would bring in picnic tables and have
parties in the drained pool—which, of course, were only for
the actual members, since there wasn’t room for invited
swimmers. And besides, you couldn’t swim with picnic tables
instead of water.
Over a period of time, those who
weren’t actually members started finding other places to
swim—swimming holes, lakes, rivers and streams which were
not a part of the Association of United Swimming Pools or
the Synod of Swimming Pools in America.
The associations became aware
that attendance at the pools was declining, so they revised
their handbook, rewrote the swimming pool songbook, and
developed new methods of filtration and algae control in
hopes it would draw people back from the swimming holes,
lakes and streams. There was great concern among the
associations of swimming pools. Some even pronounced that
the swimming pools were dead and went to work at golf clubs
instead. In the meantime, they drained and cleaned the pools
more often.
A few people suggested that
perhaps they should refill the pools with water and actually
try going out to the rivers and streams and inviting people
to try the pools again, but they were regarded as left-wing
radicals and attracted little following. Meanwhile, the
chlorine got stronger and the pools cleaner, but no one was
swimming.
The Statistic
The date was May 1984. The city
was Baltimore. The event was the General Conference,
celebrating the bicentennial of American Methodism, back in
the city of our birth. Two years later, Bishop Richard Wilke
wrote a book with a title taken from the Wesley hymn “And
Are We Yet Alive?”, and he asked the question about
contemporary Methodism. Here is his reflection on the
General Conference and its final action:
At the General Conference, late
at night, tired and muddle-brained, one thousand delegates
were asked to set a goal of twenty million members by the
year 1992. The inspiration came from the Koreans and their
commitment to evangelism. To oppose it would be like
boycotting baseball or banning apple pie. We raised our
hands. The motion passed. A committee was formed.
Since that humid night in
Baltimore in 1984, we have lost fifty thousand members and
are continuing to hemorrhage at the rate of a thousand
members a week.
(Rickard Wilke, And Are We
Yet Alive?, Abingdon, 1986)
And since 1986, the trend has
continued. Not only have we not reached twenty million
members, we have declined each year. And this year, our
total membership dropped below eight million for the first
time since 1930.
That’s what I call
“keeping shut about the Good News.”
What a contrast to Luke’s
account of the early church. In Acts 1, 120 disciples in the
upper room; in chapter 2, three thousand came to the faith.
And now in Acts 3, Luke says. “…many of those who heard the
word believed, and their number came to about five
thousand.”
What a contrast to the bold
witness of Peter and John when the rulers told them to keep
shut about the name of Jesus: “We cannot but speak the
things we have seen and heard.”
I believe the story of John and
Peter and this first healing of the Christian era gives the
trajectory God had in mind for the church and perhaps a
pattern for the healing of the church today.
1. You can’t share if you
don’t care.
The story begins with John and
Peter on their way to the temple to pray. Note, they were on
their way to the regular hour of prayer, on their way to the
Temple. They did it every week or perhaps every day. It was
a habit, a discipline. They were still deeply rooted in the
Jewish tradition, still following the pattern of temple
worship. To me, that says something about the importance of
a commitment to worship as a regular discipline, gathering
with the people of God in worship as a patterned part of my
daily life. But I digress…that’s not the point I want to
make here.
The story begins on the way to
worship when John and Peter see a lame man, a man
handicapped from birth. There were probably lots of them
around the temple that day, a day before social welfare
systems and community support. If you were blind or
crippled, the only way to get by was to beg. So there he
was, doing the only thing he knew to do. He sees Peter and
John and thinks he can get something from them. Now, I
wonder just what it was that he saw in them. Maybe it was
their demeanor. Maybe it was their warmth. Maybe you could
see the love of Jesus just flowing from them. Or maybe they
just looked gullible—a couple of country bumpkins, just
common fishermen in the city for the first time. Maybe the
lame man was a good con man who knew who to hit up, who
could spot a soft touch when he saw one.
It could be all of the above, I
suppose. But whatever, he saw them…and what’s more
important, they saw him. Luke notes, “Peter directed his
gaze at him.” Or as the Eugene Peterson translation says,
“He looked him straight in the eye.”
He really saw.
Maybe for the first time. Oh, he
had seen them before, sure enough—the lame, the blind, the
lepers, the outcasts. He had seen the hurt in his world, the
oppression and injustice. He had seen it all, but maybe he
had never really “seen” them before.
It’s easy to close our eyes to
the hurts of others and the hurts of the world. I admit I
hardly ever watch the TV news anymore. I have to say, I’m at
a point where I just want to turn it off and tune it out—the
flood of images:
The disaster in Iraq, getting
worse every day
The destruction in Lebanon
Deaths in Darfur
Amish funeral processions
There are times when I just
don’t want to see it anymore. And every social worker and
care-giver, doctor and nurse will tell you there are times
when you have to steel yourself if you are going to do
anyone any good.
But if our hearts have been
strangely warmed by the flame of Pentecost, if we have been
touched by the wind of God’s spirit, if we have been with
Jesus, there are also those times when we need to look the
needs of the world right in the eye—to “gaze directly at
them.” To really see.
You know, they are still
there—those who are lame with loneliness, looking for
someone to reach out a hand; lame under the burden of
oppression; a world crippled by violence and divisions,
prejudice and barriers; a world still lame, looking for
someone who will see and care.
Here is a wonderful story from
my dear mother. She is 85 years old and she attends a little
Methodist Church in Lake Alfred, Florida. Maybe it was
because she was from Pennsylvania. Maybe she had been
watching too much television. But do you know what she did?
This week when she went to the weekly church supper, she
took along some blank slips of paper and handed them out to
the folks there. With no idea how she would actually do it,
she said, “Let’s all write notes and send them to the Amish
families and sign them ‘From your friends at the Lake Alfred
United Methodist Church.’” My brother found the address for
the United Methodist Church in Paradise, Pennsylvania, and
she sent them off. She really saw. And she cared.
You can’t share if you
don’t care.
2. You can’t give what
you don’t have.
Well, when old, impetuous Peter
saw the man, he said, “Silver and gold have I none, but such
as I have I give unto you.” And in a daring moment of holy
boldness, he reached out, grabbed the man by the hand and
pulled him up, saying, “In the name of Jesus, rise up and
walk!” And my guess is that Peter and John might have been
just as surprised as the lame man, when that was exactly
what he did! His feet and ankles were made strong. Leaping
up, he stood and walked and praised God.
Now maybe it’s a lack of faith,
but I am not advocating we try that at home or at your local
hospital room. We can talk about how God heals in our
day—the miracle of new knees, new hips, new strength; the
need for cancer research, stem cell research, openness to
the ways in which science might bring new ways of healing
the brokenness of our world. But that’s another digression.
I want to focus on Peter’s
offer: “Silver and gold have I none, but what I have I give
unto you.” And I want to say simply, “You can’t give what
you don’t have.”
It’s hard to share the love of
Christ if you haven’t experienced it for yourself. It’s
difficult to offer the helping hand of Christ if you haven’t
been touched by Christ at the point of your own need of
healing and strength. It’s next to impossible to lift others
if you haven’t been lifted out of your own lame, crippled
experience.
You can’t give what you
don’t have.
3. But if you have
experienced God’s grace, you can’t keep silent about what
you have seen and heard.
So Peter and John are dragged
before the authorities, the ones who held all the power, and
they told them to keep shut about the name of Jesus; not to
preach or teach in his name. And Luke said:
When they charged them not to
speak or teach at all in the name of Jesus, Peter and John
responded, “Whether it’s right or wrong, you decide, but we
can’t help but speak of the things we have seen and heard.”
You can debate the
appropriateness or the legality of it. You can argue whether
it fits the tradition, the liturgy or the polity. Go ahead,
if you like, and contemplate the theological question of
God’s will, God’s mind, the depth of God’s wisdom. But while
you’re doing that:
We’ve a story to tell to the
nations,
that shall turn their hearts to the right.
We’ve a song to be sung to the nations,
that shall lift their hearts to the Lord.
We’ve a Savior to show to the nations,
who the path of sorrow hath trod,
that all of the world’s great peoples
might come to the truth of God.
(UM Hymnal, 569)
You know there are lame people
around—lame with loneliness, looking for a friend; coming to
church, looking for a warm hand of welcome; reaching out,
just to see if someone will notice them. And when you have
experienced something of the love of God in your own life,
you can’t help but share it in word and deed with those
around you. When you have seen the way God can take broken
and crippled lives and set them to walking and leaping and
praising God, you can’t help but find ways to care about
others, to reach out to the world. When you have seen the
way God’s love can break down barriers of race and class and
create a new community, you just can’t keep shut about the
Good News.
I love the old story of the
Salvation Army drummer in London who was beating away on his
drum in a street corner band. A very proper church lady came
up and whispered to him, “You know, you really shouldn’t
beat the drum so hard.” He turned to her with tears in his
eyes and a smile on his face and said, “Lady, since I’ve met
Jesus, I’m so happy I could bust the bloomin’ drum.”
You can’t share if you don’t
care. You can’t give what you don’t have. But once you have
experienced the love of Christ, you can’t keep shut about
the Good News.
Here comes the post script:
Some years ago, my brother and I
were invited to preach for the hundredth anniversary of our
home church in Clarion, Pennsylvania. One of the highlights
of the weekend was the opening of the original cornerstone,
placed in 1887. The newspaper report reads:
Eager anticipation faded to
disappointment on Friday as Daniel Schmader, stone mason,
finally freed the 1887 cornerstone and its contents. A quick
look into the crumpled box revealed an almost
indistinguishable collection of soggy material. There was
nothing in the box that could be displayed.
As this writer gazed into the
ruined box, a feeling of incredible sadness overwhelmed me.
Aware of how much planning and excitement had gone into our
celebration, I can well imagine that same exhilaration in
the hearts of our ancestors in 1887. How full of hope and
joy and prayers they must have been as they placed in that
strong metal box their precious hymnal, printed records and
gleaming Sunday School coins. How disappointed they would be
to know that in only a hundred years, it was reduced to
nothing.
But that’s what happens when you
try to box up, close up or shut up the Good News. It turns
to nothing. You see, you just can’t keep shut about the Good
News.
|
